Atrox
by SalemsChild
Summary: Sam barely survived the snakebite that still threatens to take his arm. He has signed out AMA and sets out on a new and impulsive hunt that jeopardizes his fragile health. The sequel to my previous story "Crotalus". Plenty more Limp!Sam.
1. Atrox Preface

**Disclaimer: **No profit is made from this story...unless you count the fun I've had making our boys squirm a bit and in getting to know all of my readers. I appreciate every last one of you.

**A/N: **I'm re-posting the final chapter of "Crotalus" as a preface to "Atrox" so that readers can have a quick refresher on the storyline before heading into "Atrox", proper. I hope to post the first chapter later tonight!!! I am doing better health-wise and will do my utmost to update regularly.

**Crotalus (Atrox Preface)**

**Chapter 14: Pandora's Box**

The mention of his brother's name was all it took for the tears to wash down Sam's face. Couldn't Bobby understand that Dean was precisely the reason why he couldn't sign that form? If Sam lost his arm, he was out of the game. And if he couldn't hunt, how was he going to save Dean from the deal he'd made with the Crossroads Demon?

"Oh, my God," Bobby sputtered breathlessly. "That's it, isn't? You won't sign because of Dean's deal. You think that if you lose the arm, you won't be able to get Dean out of that damned deal. This whole thing, all of it, it's about Dean, isn't it?"

"What about Dean?," a familiar voice boomed from the doorway. Turning towards the sound, Sam and Bobby saw the older sibling leaning nonchalantly against the doorframe, arms crossed casually in front of his chest and a smugly cherubic grin lighting his face.

"Dean," Bobby said hesitantly, wondering just how much of the horrible things he'd said to Sam that the older boy might have heard.

Dean watched lustfully as the irritatingly jaunty Kelli flounced back into the room, her ample bosom bouncing with her motions nearly as much as her golden curls. "Sorry, I'm interrupting, guys," the nurse twittered with a schoolgirl giggle, "but it's time for Sam to get washed up and his bed linens need to be changed. You can come back in when we're done."

Bobby was actually relieved for the interruption. He really needed to talk to Dean. The article about Samuel Colt that he'd read in "Guns & Ammo" was troubling enough, but the bombshell that had been dropped regarding Sam's arm had put a twist of desperation into his mood.

The older hunter followed Dean out the door, having to give him a firm nudge to keep him moving as he looked confusedly back over his shoulder at his younger brother. Sam sat passively on the bed, his eyes averted downward as he tried to hide his attempts to swipe at the wash of tears still trickling down his cheeks. "Is Sammy ok, Bobby? He looks really pale."

Once outside the door, the eldest boy got his first good look at Bobby's face and the rather strained and severe expression it held. "Look, Bobby," Dean gushed, "before you jump all over me for being back here so so-..."

"I'm glad you're here, Dean. We've got to talk."

"You are?," Dean questioned, the astonishment clear in his voice. "I thought for sure you'd be tearing me a new one becau-..."

"We've got trouble, Dean. _Big_ trouble, and plenty of it."

"It's Sammy, isn't it?," Dean questioned anxiously as he subconsciously began to pace furiously back and forth in front of the closed door of his younger brother's room. "I _knew_ something would happen if I left."

_No, Dean, _Bobby thought ruefully, _something would have happened had you stayed. Most likely, you'd have knocked Hartzell's ass into next week and ended up in jail with Hendrickson just drooling over the prospect of getting his mitts on you. _"Dean, just calm down and listen to me. You have to promise me that you won't interrupt until I'm done."

A growing pit was carving its way into Dean's stomach at the implications behind the elder hunter's words. Bobby was serious..._deadly_ serious. "What's going on, Bobby? I could swear Sam was crying. Aren't they giving him enough pain medication?"

"While you were gone, there was a Dr. Hartzell that came in. He's a surgeon. A real arrogant S. O. B.," Bobby explained, holding up his hand to stop Dean when it looked as though he was going to butt in. "The nurses say he's the best at what he does...and it's a good thing. Because, despite all of his medical prowess, he's about as tactless as they come. He dropped a real bombshell in Sam's lap and he wasn't exactly sympathetic in his approach."

Bobby took a deep breath before forging into the most difficult part of his story. "Hartzell says that all of that black tissue on Sam's hand and arm is dead. He needs to cut away the dead tissue to prevent infection but Sam is refusing to sign the surgical consent."

"What?! He damn well better sign it or I'll _make_ him sign it," Dean blustered as he reached to push the door open, not caring that the nurse was still assisting Sam to bathe.

"Dean, wait!," Bobby blurted, stepping in front of the younger man to block him from opening the door. "It's not that simple. There's a chance cleaning out the dead tissue won't be enough. Dean, Sam won't sign the consent because the surgeon said he'd most likely have to amputate the arm."

Bobby had wanted to ease gently into the possibility of Sam losing his arm but Dean hadn't really given him any choice and his words had tumbled out much quicker and harsher than he would have preferred. Their impact was easily measured by Dean's stunned expression. He almost appeared as though Bobby had physically reached out and slapped him in the face.

Dean's eyes searched Bobby's face, hoping he had somehow misunderstood what the older man had said. But the anguished and sympathetic mien of his trusted friend was plenty of evidence that Dean had understood just perfectly. "Oh, Sammy," Dean whispered out, his facial expression twisting with the heartbreak he felt for his little brother. "But, Bobby...if he doesn't get it taken care of and infection sets in..."

"It might kill him," Bobby finished for him quietly, the sudden glistening of Dean's eyes not going unnoticed by the older man. "He's convinced himself that he can't get you outta..."

"It's the deal, isn't?" Dean didn't really need the affirmative nodding of the other hunter's head to know he was right. "He's more worried about trying to find some way to get me out of that deal than he is of taking care of himself. We don't even know if a way out even exists, Bobby. I've got to talk to him. I've got to get him to sign that consent," Dean proclaimed, a tone of desperation leeching into his voice.

"I was counting on it, Dean," Bobby assured, a strong hand gripping Dean's right shoulder and giving it a firm, encouraging squeeze. "But there's more."

"More? Jesus, Bobby, how much more can Sammy deal with right now?"

"That's precisely why we need to talk. There's potentially some big shit going down out there and if Sam finds out about it..."

"Big shit? What kind of big shit? Quit talking in riddles, Bobby, and just spit it out," Dean growled irritably. The stress of the past few days had taken its toll on Dean's nerves and the revelations about Sam's arm certainly hadn't helped. He already had a lot to deal with right now and he just didn't have the energy to try to decode Bobby's cryptic statements.

"Here," Bobby grunted as he shoved the article from the "Guns & Ammo" magazine at Dean. He pointed to the area on the second page of the expose on Samuel Colt. "Start reading here."

Dean's eyes flashed back and forth across the page as the words printed there unveiled the story. Occasionally, his lips would silently mouth the words as he read. By the time he'd read to the end, his jaw hung open in shell-shocked disbelief. "Holy shit," Dean muttered, his arm dropping limply to his side with the magazine still clutched tightly in his fingers.

"Yeah. You can say that again," Bobby acknowledged. "I had the same response."

"Do you think Colt's journal really exists or is this something this Scruggs dude is making up for a few quick bucks and some notoriety?"

"Pretty damned accurate shit if he's makin' it up. And he'll get some notoriety, alright. If he doesn't get himself locked in a rubber room first, he'll have every hunter and demon on earth wanting a piece of him."

"Yeah," Dean agreed with a chuckle. "Nothing quite like the risk of exposure to piss off a bunch of hunters. Still, if he's not just some nut job and that journal really _could_ lead us to those castings, being able to outfit an army of hunters with more of those Colt revolvers would definitely give us an edge."

"An edge no demon is gonna be willing and happy to let us have," Bobby cautioned. "If Scruggs doesn't shut the hell up and continue to lay low, he's likely to find himself face to face with one of the 'unnatural things' he read about in that journal."

"He's playing things pretty close to the chest, though, Bobby," Dean reasoned. "He's not revealing the location of the journal and it sounds like he's gone into hiding. Pretty smart, if you ask me."

"Yeah, but there's too much at stake here, Dean. There's no tellin' what all there might be scrawled in that journal that could win or lose this war for us, depending on which side gets hold of it. This could put a lot of good people, hunters, at risk, not to mention Scruggs, too. Hell, give a whiz-kid researcher like Sam a few days and he could probably ferret this guy out of whatever hole he's crawled into, no matter where it is or how deep it goes."

"And that's why we can't let Sammy know about this," Dean implored. He flipped the magazine shut and peered at the publishing date on it. "This issue's nearly a month old already and things have been quiet. I say we just sit back, keep our ears to the ground and let this blow over. Once Sam's better, we can follow up the leads and see if there's any truth to them. It's going to be hard enough to get Sam to sign that consent, but if he catches wind of that article now, I'll _never_ convince him to get his arm taken care of."

Bobby was thoughtfully shaking his head in agreement. "We're on the same page, then. I figured, if Sam knew about this, he'd sign out of here to chase down that journal and play guard dog to Scruggs instead of gettin' the care he needs. So, I'm with you on this, Dean. We keep quiet and concentrate on Sam."

**-:-:-:-:-:-:-**

"Hey, Dean," Sam greeted as his older brother strolled back into his room. "Where's Bobby?"

"There's a dude down the road that owns a shop. He's got a '67 Ford Mustang Coupe that he's restoring. Bobby's got an original '67 'stang grill back at the salvage yard that he's trading the guy for letting him use his shop and his tools so he can give his heap a little CPR. I guess it took a bit of a beating getting through that wicked storm to get here."

The half-truth slipped off Dean's tongue so easily that it made him feel sleazy and despicable. Sure he'd spent most of his life lying. He'd lied about his identity, lied about his home life, lied about his "job" and it had all rolled out of his mouth without really a second thought and even less guilt. But, somehow, lying to Sam always sent shards of shame slashing through Dean, even if, just as in this case, it was for his little brother's own good.

Bobby really _had_ traded the classic grill in exchange for use of the owner's garage and all of his tools. But there had been more reasons behind Bobby's disappearing act than just the storm-battered truck. First and foremost, Bobby and Dean both wanted that magazine and its article about Samuel Colt as far away from Sam as they could get it. Secondly, Bobby wanted a nice, out of the way spot with as few eavesdropping ears as possible in which to ring Jefferson. And what better place to make the call than to slip out back while any prying ears would be occupied by the sounds of air wrenches, hydraulic lifts, clanging tools and the shop's small radio that constantly blared the local station's rock and roll playlist.

The two older hunters had decided that Bobby should call Jefferson and place a few well-crafted and ambiguous inquiries as to any scuttlebutt that might be sloshing around the very informal hunter's grapevine. Although Jefferson was a trusted ally and had collaborated on more than a few hunts, they had nixed the idea of direct questioning regarding Samuel Colt, feeling that the fewer number of people that knew of the article and its possible leads, the better. The information could make Jefferson a target if any demons came looking and even some of the best hunters had been known to crack in the face of torture from a supernatural adversary and blown another hunter's cover or divulged some sort of compromising information.

"I don't think there's been a vehicle made that Bobby doesn't have parts for," Sam hypothesized.

"Yeah," Dean agreed simply, a sudden awkwardness descending over the brothers.

Sam knew Bobby would have told Dean about his stubbornness in refusing to sign the surgical consent and he sat tense and rigid waiting for the explosion of anger he was sure would follow. The suspense pulled at his aching muscles, taut kinks forming in painful disapproval of the stress. Unthinking, Sam rolled his shoulders in an effort to loosen the rocklike constrictions and regretted the hiss of agony that pierced its way through his entire right arm. He tried determinedly to suppress the nearly involuntary grimace of pain that flashed briefly across his face but it was just too little, too late. It was clear by the way Dean paled that he had seen it and Sam supposed that would be the only catalyst needed to light the fuse on his brother's powder keg of fury.

Dean had fully intended to come at Sam with both guns blazing and keep on blasting until his baby brother backed down and agreed to the surgery. But seeing the pain such a small and simple movement had caused his brother, drove home the seriousness of the situation and just what might lie ahead if he was unable to change Sam's mind.

Suddenly, the familiar feelings of panic and overwhelming despair he'd endured all too frequently of late, picked at his fraying nerves as a bombardment of horribly vivid images assaulted Dean's mind. They were images of the past and they were images of the future. In the blink of an eye, Dean re-lived the painful memories of Sam dying in his arms as they crouched helplessly in the South Dakota mud, a final embrace the only thing that passed between them. Then there were flickering images of their trek out of the woods, Sam pushing with everything he had even as his strength slipped silently away, the endless hours spent at his bedside praying for even the smallest of miracles and then images of Sam's arm, festered and oozing with pus as severe infection overwhelms his baby brother's vitality and Death steals him away once again.

Sam watched in wide-eyed concern as Dean's trembling hand unconsciously rubbed across his chest. "Dean? Dean, are you ok?"

Dean wordlessly rose from the chair he'd settled into at Sam's beside and, turning his back to his little brother, limped his way to the window. It was taking everything he had to hold the panic at bay and keep himself from dissolving into yet another round of hyperventilating. Dean's chest felt incredibly tight and his stomach rolled viciously as the ramifications of Sam's refusal tore at his defenses.

"Dean? Come on, man. Talk to me." Sam's voice broke over the last few syllables as his anxiety over his older brother grew. His unease only intensified as the trembling that he'd seen in Dean's hands seemed to engulf him and the older boy reached for the windowsill to steady himself.

"It hurts, Sammy," Dean breathed out in a whisper so soft that Sam almost couldn't hear him, his right hand still tracing a path back and forth across his tightening chest. "It hurts so damned much and I can't do it."

Sam's face twisted in confusion and anxiety. Bobby had said Dean was ok; that the doctors had given him a clean bill of health. And now here's Dean in front of him, barely able to stand on his own and admitting he's in pain. What was going on? Had Bobby and Dean been lying all this time?

"What hurts? What can't you do?"

Dean turned on shaky legs to face Sam, the hopeless and lost look of a man trapped in his worst nightmare staining his face. Fat tears had brimmed over his lower lashes and raced downward across the pale landscape of Dean's cheeks. The fact that Dean seemed not to notice that he was openly crying caused Sam to break out in a cold sweat.

Dean had only just rebuilt the walls around his emotions and the mortar he'd used to smooth over the cracks was still so thin and weak that Dean knew the walls were in danger of crumbling completely again. The tears fell faster and his breathing hitched unevenly as he raked both hands into his hair. Knotting clumps of golden-brown spikes in his fists, Dean curled his arms down over his head, as though doing so could cork off the flow of unwelcome emotions.

"Dean, please. Just tell me what's wrong. You're scaring me."

"I can't do it anymore, Sammy," Dean muffled out past his clenched arms before allowing them to fall limply at his sides. "I can't sit here again and watch you die, watch you _kill_ yourself, because you won't sign that release. I'm done in, Sammy," Dean lurched out between his tears. "I'm dangling off the edge of an emotional cliff and I can't hold on anymore. I just can't."

"Dean, I just..."

"No, Sammy," Dean interrupted, raising his red-rimmed eyes to meet Sam's. "I shouldn't have waited to tell you this. I've made so many mistakes. I've tried so hard to stay strong. I've tried to bury things away so that no one can see the hurt; tried to bury the awful things I've seen and done. In the process, it's also buried away the things that are the most important; things that should never have gone unsaid."

"They didn't _have_ to be said, Dean," Sam responded softly. "Even when it wasn't said, I've always known."

"Yes, it did, Sam. It _did_ need to be said." Dean's face filled with regret. "I love you, Sam. I've always loved you. And sitting here, watching you die, it tore me apart, Sam. It tore me apart so bad that I wanted to die right along with you. I can't go through that again. I can't watch you kill yourself over a bunch of 'what if's' we're not sure even exist. I know you don't agree with what I did, with making the deal. But I _know _you've got to understand why I did it. I love you. Please, Sammy, _please_ sign the consent."

Sam sat in quiet reflection as Dean slumped bonelessly back into the bedside chair. The sudden onslaught and release of emotion had completely spent the young hunter and the continued tossing of his stomach was only further sapping what little energy he had left. Dean used his forearm to wipe at the wet tracks left by his tears as he worked to keep his breathing even.

"It was real, wasn't it?," Sam questioned softly.

Dean looked up tiredly, his mind trying to catch up with the sudden shift in the conversation. "Was what real?"

"When I was...," Sam began, but then fumbled to a stop, searching for the right words. "...I guess I was unconscious...and something happened...I felt like I had been lost in the dark. But then I heard your voice. You were telling me that you loved me...that you'd always been too afraid to say it. Suddenly, it felt like I was snatched out of the darkness and you were there, holding my hand. When I woke up, I figured it was just a dream. But, it wasn't, was it?"

"No," Dean confirmed softly. "It wasn't a dream. It was a nightmare..._my_ nightmare. You were leaving me and I'd never told you. You were dying, and you still might if you don't sign that consent. You can't leave me to do this alone, Sam, please." Dean swallowed heavily as his stomach lurched sickeningly with the strong emotions that coursed through him. "I love you and you've just got to sign it, please."

Tears welled in Sam's eyes and he looked away guiltily. Why did love have to be so complicated? Why did it seem that loving someone always meant hurting them, too? "I _do_ understand why you made the deal, Dean. I love you, too. And that's why I can't sign it. I may never find a way to get you out of the deal, but I have to at least try. If I can't hunt, I can't do that. Dean, I just can't sign that paper if it means he might take my arm."

A syrupy thick silence descended over the room as both boys sat with their heads bowed, each one unable to watch the impact their words and decisions had on the other. Dean felt his stomach shifting badly as his thoughts and emotions tumbled crazily between sincere gratitude for the sacrifice his baby brother was prepared to make for him and his desperation to prevent that sacrifice from occurring. There _had_ to be something he could do. Something that would wake him from this never-ending nightmare.

Dean could feel a sourness filling his mouth as the bitterness began a slow crawl up his throat. He swallowed repeatedly, trying to force his stomach into submission even as his turbulent emotions continued to agitate it. The churning only increased the harder Dean tried to quell it and he knew it was only a matter of time before the battle would be lost. Dean rose from his chair and quickly hobbled for the door. He was going to be sick, he knew that. But he'd be damned if he was going to fall apart and hurl his guts into some trash can as his little brother watched. He'd already been weak in front of Bobby and Dean remembered all too well the way that Bobby had looked at him. Sam had always looked up to him and he knew he wouldn't be able to stand it if Sam looked at him the way that Bobby had.

"Dean? Dean, please don't leave," Sam begged. "I know you're angry with me and I'm sorry, but..."

Dean had just reached the doorway as he felt his guts reel violently and he dove wordlessly through the opening, dashing down the hall towards the bathroom. Behind him, he could hear the sounds of his younger brother calling after him.

"Dean! Dean, come back! Please!"

**-:-:-:-:-:-:-**

He sat back on his haunches and wiped his shaking hand across his face, the acidic sting of vomit still strong in his mouth. Dean's stomach had finally quieted but his thoughts continued to spin crazily. Sam wouldn't sign as long as the surgeon threatened to take his arm. If he didn't sign, it could take his life. It was a no-win situation and no matter how you looked at it, the options sucked.

It was obvious to Dean that there was no way he was going to change Sam's mind. _He's never going to get his arm looked after as long as he might lose it, _Dean mused as he sat dejectedly on the men's room floor. He reached a hand out and slapped it down on the toilet lever, happy to see the foul contents he'd brought up into the bowl making their escape. His stomach gurgled unhappily from its recent purging and he scrubbed a hand across his abdomen in hopes of soothing it. "Oh, knock it off," he grumbled out loud to his stomach. "I've already puked, ok? It kinda screws with the whole 'trying to look cool' thing, so don't you dare make me lose it again. Not that I look all that cool sitting on the bathroom floor and talking to my-..."

Dean stopped abruptly, his mind whirling and his heart racing as his own words and those of his younger brother bounced through his head. He quickly scrambled to his feet and pushed his way out of the stall, the door banging back and forth several times with the force of his rushed exit. Stopping briefly at the sink, he hurriedly swished a handful of water around his mouth to remove the lingering bitterness and spat it into the sink. Cupping his hands, he splashed some cool water on his face and ran a quick hand through his spiky hair. He jerked a few rough, institutional paper towels from their holder and dabbed hastily at his dripping face before tossing the crumpled wad in the direction of a nearby receptacle and bolted from the restroom, disappearing down the hallway in the opposite direction from Sam's room.

**-:-:-:-:-:-:-**

"Have a seat in here, Mr. Winchester," the graying receptionist directed as she motioned Dean into a narrow, cramped room. "Dr. Hartzell will be in to speak with you as soon as he can."

The sign outside the door had read 'Family Consultation Room' but Dean wondered just how a real family was supposed to fit into such a tiny space. He extended his arms out to his sides across the narrow room and wasn't at all surprised when the fingertips of each hand brushed the walls.

"Frickin' broom closet," Dean muttered irritably. Two upholstered chairs were situated side by side on one of the longest walls. Dean removed his leather coat and tossed it on the seat of one of them before settling into the other. A small table with a telephone and a lamp sat just to the left of Dean on the short wall and another upholstered chair was arranged beyond that, canted slightly so that it fit nicely into the corner of the room and faced the other chairs. A magazine rack, sparsely populated with tattered and outdated periodicals, sat against the opposite short wall, just under the wall-mounted TV set.

Forty-five minutes of drumming his fingers on the chair's wooden arm rests, bouncing his knees and nervously humming Metallica finally came to an end when Dr. Hartzell burst through the closed door of the room and slammed it loudly shut behind himself.

"So, which one are you - Curly or Shemp?," the surgeon spit out acerbically as he flopped into the corner chair and propped his feet on the chair next to Dean, heedless to the fact that his shoes were grinding dirty streaks into the younger man's leather coat.

"Excuse me?," Dean sputtered out, his surprise at the tornadic arrival of the physician and the explosive delivery of his off-beat question clearly evident in the stunned expression on his face.

"I've already met with the other two Stooges so that only leaves Curly or Shemp. Let's make this quick and not waste any more of my precious time than we have to, shall we?"

"You're my brother's surgeon and..."

"I know very well who I am and I also know that I recommended a surgical procedure that your brother has refused." Dr. Hartzell rose to leave. "Unless you're here to tell me he's reconsidered, then we obviously have nothing to discuss."

Dean was completely floored by the physician's horrendous attitude. It wasn't like Bobby hadn't warned him about Hartzell's temperament but Dean had expected arrogant, not downright offensive. _Calling this guy arrogant, _Dean thought, _is like calling a demon a little 'unfriendly'. _

"You don't get to leave yet," Dean growled as he stepped in front of the door, placing himself between the man and his only route of escape. "I don't know what the hell your problem is that's made you the asshole you are. Maybe your diapers were in a bunch when you were a baby or you drove a shitty car as a teenager or maybe it's because you haven't even been able to _buy_ a good lay lately, I don't know. And I don't really care, either, because I'm told you're the best surgeon around and there is _nothing _in this world that's gonna stop me from doing whatever I can to get my kid brother's arm fixed. Somewhere between Asswipe 101 and Bad Bedside Manner 102 you took the Hippocritic oath to..."

"Hippo_cratic_. It's the Hippocratic oath, dimwit," Dr. Hartzell corrected.

"No. No, in your case I'm pretty sure I got it right," Dean shot back. "You took an oath to help sick and injured people and you're too busy being the world's biggest hypocrite to actually take the time to do that! You knew Sam wouldn't sign that consent as long as he stands to lose his arm and all you did was walk out on him!"

"I advised your brother of the treatment that is necessary and, whether you and Uncle Bubba like it or not, I'm not in the business of holding hands and wiping noses. If an idiot wants to refuse treatment, there's not much I can do about it."

"Oh, come on, Dr. Hardass! You can do more and you and I both know it," Dean accused loudly, his index finger jabbing the air threateningly.

"That's Dr. _Hartzell_," the indignant surgeon hissed.

"Yeah, whatever. They say you're the best surgeon around but, if that's the case, then you need to do something to show me you've earned that reputation honestly," Dean challenged. "As far as I can see, you're just an arrogant, self-absorbed and spiteful tyrant who thinks he's God because no one has ever had the gonads to stand up to you and let you in on the truth!"

Dean was breathing heavily by the time he was finished and suddenly realized he had unconsciously adopted a fighting stance. He relaxed his body but his eyes never wavered from the surgeon standing just an arm's length in front of him. Dean knew he could easily take the older man if it came to blows, but he wasn't going to let his guard down too much and let the obnoxious pain in the ass get the satisfaction of getting the drop on him.

Hartzell's fist was balled so tightly as he held it against his equally tightly pursed lips that his knuckles had gone white. His facial expression appeared hardened, the skin so reddened it looked to Dean as though the man would soon be blowing steam from his ears. Although Dean blocked the physician's path out the door, Hartzell stood between Dean and the telephone, a fact that Dean now regretted not planning for.

All it would take to get Dean barred from his brother's bedside would be a quick call from Hartzell to the Security office. Dean's mind was occupied in formulating ways to prevent Hartzell from making the call and he was caught off-guard when the surgeon's arm suddenly snaked out towards him. The older man's hand had already landed and clamped firmly on Dean's shoulder as he tried to block it by bringing his arm up in a defensive maneuver.

"Easy there, Rambo. You sure got a set of stones on you, you know that? And while we're reviewing personality traits...you're cocky, you're brash, and above all else, you're as ballsy and insolent as hell," Hartzell explained with a laugh and a friendly shake of Dean's shoulder. "I like that about you. Kind of reminds me of myself at your age."

"God help me," Dean grumbled under his breath, glancing up suddenly to see what Hartzell's reaction would be.

The sixty-something surgeon chuckled. The warm smile that spread across his face looked almost out of place after the heated exchange that had occurred between the two men. "In all of the years I've been practicing, I can count on the fingers of one hand the number of people - patients, families, nurses and other doctors - that have stood their ground with me. I respect you for the gutsiness you've shown. It's made you a most worthy adversary."

"Worthy enough for you to help my brother?"

The surgeon bobbed his head up and down a few times before speaking. "Yeah. I think I can spare the ink to re-write that consent for just the debridement...no amputation. Although, I'm still not sure Sam will sign it...or that that bulldog of an uncle of yours will let me get near him, for that matter."

"You just worry about making arrangements to do the surgery. I'll worry about calling off the dogs and getting Sam to sign."

"Deal. But," Dr. Hartzell added quickly, "this comes with a few caveats and concessions."

"Great," Dean groaned sarcastically. "Something tells me I've just become your bitch."

"In order that Sam agrees to some form of treatment, I'll do the debridement alone but I _still_ consider amputation to be Sam's best course of treatment and will include that information in his records."

"Just protecting yourself if things get ugly," Dean assured. "Got it. Now, what about those concessions?"

"Don't you dare let it get around that I'm anything less than Dr. Hardass. Got it?"

Dean laughed openly. "Yeah, sure, Doc. You got it. Dr. Hardass it is."

Hartzell clapped Dean on the back, turned and pulled the door open. As the older man strolled out, Dean could hear him muttering and chuckling to himself. "Dr. Hardass. Never heard that one before. I kinda like that."

**-:-:-:-:-:-:-**

**The following day, 10:30 AM**

"Dean, will you sit down, already?" Bobby snarled. "You're as jittery as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs."

"I can't help it, Bobby. I'm worried."

"Look," Bobby reasoned, "they said we'd be able to see Sam in about ten minutes. He made it through the surgery just fine, so there's nothing to worry about. They just need a chance to get him settled in Recovery, is all. Now will you _please_ sit down and relax before you have your fingernails chewed down to nothing but bloody stubs."

Dean stared out the waiting area windows, absently twirling the pull string for the vertical blinds around his index finger before releasing it and starting all over again. "What if this surgery isn't enough? What if it's so bad that they still want to take his arm?" Dean turned towards Bobby, his eyes moist and filled with apprehension. "I barely got him to agree to do this much, Bobby. I'll never get him to sign for anything more. So, yeah, don't even think I'm gonna come close to relaxing," Dean confessed quietly, "until I hear what Hartzell has to say about the condition of Sam's arm."

Bobby glanced away guiltily, suddenly taking an interest in the abstract design of the room's carpeting. He understood the younger man's nervousness and, somehow, making any more of it just seemed like rubbing salt in a wound. "Yeah, Hartzell," Bobby said with a small chuckle. "Did you really call him, 'Dr. Hardass'?"

"Yeah," Dean confirmed, an amused small lighting his face and the tension leaving his shoulders. "Yeah, I guess I did."

"You sure know how to sweet talk 'em, don't you, boy?"

"Yeah, well, he pissed me off. Anyway, I didn't exactly see you getting anywhere with him," Dean gently chided his friend.

Bobby had just opened his mouth to retort when a female voice called out and interrupted him.

"Mr. Winchester, Mr. Singer. If you'll follow me, I'll take you to see Sam."

**-:-:-:-:-:-:-**

**4 hours later, Sam's room**

"You're sure he didn't say anything about how things went?"

Sam shuffled slightly in bed, a hard wince shattering his boyish features before he could find a comfortable position. Although his right arm was throbbing nearly mercilessly now, it wasn't the arm that was aggravating him the most.

"You having pain, Sam?," Bobby asked, a tinge of concern fluttering through his voice. Sam had appeared pretty comfortable when they'd moved him from the Recovery area and back to his room almost three hours ago. Lately, though, Sam was looking really washed-out and acting even more irritable.

"Yeah, Bobby. I _am_ having pain. I'm having a pain in my ass," Sam griped tiredly, another wince broadcasting his increasing discomfort. "...and it's named Dean. I've already gone through this. How many more times do I have to tell the same story?"

"Just humor me, ok? As hard as you made me work to get you to agree to having the arm looked after," Dean pouted, "you owe me as many 'story times' as I want. Now start again from the beginning."

"Bobby..." Sam hoped a healthy whine and a flash of his best puppy-dog eyes to the older man would grant him a reprieve from reciting the same litany of boring and uninformative facts he'd already reviewed.

"One last time, Sam," Bobby cajoled, knowing just how freaked out the older sibling was that they had yet to hear Hartzell's take on the success of the procedure. "But your brother's just going to have to settle for the CliffsNotes version. You're looking really beat."

Sam sighed deeply. He hadn't felt this exhausted since he awoke in the ICU. And, if the pain level was any clue, the regional anesthesia they had used to complete the procedure was quickly wearing off. Nerve endings that had previously been content to go unheard from before the surgery to cut away the dead tissue were now shrieking malevolently.

"Pay attention, Dean," Sam scolded testily, "because I'm not repeating this again. Because of my throat, the anesthesiologist said it would be safer to do the surgery under regional anesthesia, so they injected medicine that numbed my whole arm."

"But you were awake, right? You heard everything that was said during the operation," Dean interrupted impatiently.

"Yes. I was awake. And, no, I didn't hear anything important. Mostly, it was Dr. Heartless berating his OR staff for one reason or another. When he was done, they wrapped it and then packed me off to Recovery. He claimed he was going to talk with us about it, but it never happened. And you know the rest of the story."

"Yeah, yeah," Dean groused. "The nurse said he had an emergent trauma case and would talk with us later in your room. And here we are still waiting. I bet he's in the lounge, kicked back and swilling coffee and laughing his ass off that we're up here sweating it out. I swear I'm gonna go hunt that old bastard down and drag his sorry ass back here."

"No need, Curly, the old bastard's already here." Dr. Hartzell bustled into the room. "And the coffee was pretty good, too," he stated as he set an empty paper coffee cup on a nearby stand. On his way to Sam's side, Hartzell's shoulder collided brusquely enough with Dean's to knock the younger man back a step. "Excuse you," the surgeon spat out.

Bobby was ready to tear into the aging physician but held his tongue only because he was just as desperate as Dean to hear about Sam's arm. Afterwards, though, Bobby was determined he would find a way to give the arrogant jerk a piece of his mind.

Hartzell was already bent over Sam's right arm, inspecting the bandaging that encompassed the limb from fingertips to shoulder. The ends of Sam's fingers barely stuck out beyond the bulky gauze dressings and the physician peered intently at them as he pressed his own finger into each one successively to check for circulation.

"Well?," Dean could hardly contain himself. He just _had_ to know if Sam would still be in danger of losing his arm or, worse yet, succumbing to infection because he was too pig-headed to see reason.

"Well," Dr. Hartzell began tantalizingly, "once I removed the necrotic tissue, the underlying structures on the arm looked better than I thought they might. The human hand has very little tissue protecting the vital motor structures. In Sam's case, nearly seventy-five percent of that tissue is damaged to some degree - some places not so much, some places rather significantly."

"That's why he had better movement in some fingers than others," Dean guessed.

"Ooo, another successful graduate from Redneck U. Impressive. But, in a nutshell, yes. I debrided the entire area as best I could, but I doubt Sam will regain much useful movement in that hand. Providing, of course, that further tissue death and infection don't force the amputation that I'm _still_ recommending."

"If you're such a damned good surgeon," Bobby sneered, "why would there be more tissue death or chance of infection?"

"Jinkies, Fred! It's probably because Scooby and Shaggy, here," Hartzell retorted, pointing first at Dean and then at Sam, "chickened out on letting me do what needs to be done. If we'd proceeded with the amputation that I had recommended, then it wouldn't be a factor. But since I'm fresh out of Scooby Snacks, I was only permitted to do what I warned you bozos was a half-assed job. I cleaned out what I could. But if the remaining tissue was already in the process of dying off, just cleaning the arm out might not be enough to prevent that tissue from eventually dying, too. Not to mention that I had to remove so much tissue that I was only able to completely close about fifty percent of the wound. The remaining fifty percent is going to have to granulate in on its own. Until it does, Sam's got a large open wound that's practically the frickin' Ritz-Carlton for a whole smorgasbord of germs."

The room fell eerily silent as each of the hunters dealt with the repercussions of Dr. Hartzell's words. It was Sam that spoke first, cutting Dean off just as he was readying to ask a question.

"No, Dean," Sam began softly. "I did what we agreed on. I had the wound cleaned out. Don't ask me to do more than that."

"But, Sam...," Dean pleaded.

"Damn it, Dean. You know my reasons. I'm _not_ going to let him take my arm."

"Boys," Bobby broke in, knowing he needed to do something to gain control of the situation before the brothers were outright yelling at one another. "So what's the next move then, Dr. Hartzell?"

"We keep Sam on IV antibiotics to help prevent infection, do meticulous dressing changes under sterile conditions and monitor the health of the wound. I also want to get him started with someone from Physical Therapy. The exercises can help improve circulation and that, in turn, can improve tissue health and lessen the chance of infection. What it will do for mobility - well, let's just say I wouldn't go expecting any miracles. Now, if we're done here, I have other patients to see."

The surgeon turned to leave and Dean followed closely behind. Judging by the look on Dean's face, Bobby was pretty certain the chip on Dr. Hartzell's shoulder was going to get knocked off by some pretty serious Winchester-style justice. He wanted to follow to prevent Dean from making a mistake that would surely put him in jail, but after enduring Hartzell's harsh words and raw appraisal that his arm would likely never being useful again, Sam was looking downright ill. Bobby opted to stay with Sam, but threw a word of caution at his older sibling by drawling out his name, knowing the boy would understand the meaning behind it.

As the door to Sam's room swooshed shut the surgeon turned and faced the younger man. "I really wish I'd had better news, Dean."

"Yeah, me too. But I still have to thank you," Dean asserted solemnly as he shook the physician's hand in a strong grasp. "I know you did everything you could."

Hartzell placed his other large hand on Dean's shoulder and squeezed slightly. "I really did. But I've got to thank you, too, for letting me keep my cover in there. Can't have it getting around that old Hardass Hartzell is really Heartstrings Hartzell."

**-:-:-:-:-:-:-**

**The next day, Sam's room**

In some ways, it had been a bit of a fight and Sam was certain, had the nurses not insisted, that Dean would have stayed right there at his side. Sam also knew that Dean would have been nosing into everything, flirting with the nursing staff and generally irritating him until he'd be ready to crawl right out of his skin.

As it was, though, the nurses and Dr. Hartzell's orders had actually rescued Sam from his brother's overzealous good intentions. Because the dressing changes to Sam's arm were to be done under the strictest of sterile procedure both Dean and Bobby, and any unnecessary personnel for that matter, were to be barred from the room. The less bodies that were breathing the air and rustling around the room, the less germs there would be floating around the room and potentially setting up housekeeping in the open wound on Sam's arm.

The nurses had worn what they had called isolation gowns and hair caps, in addition to their sterile gloves and disposable masks. They had given Sam some pain medicine before starting the dressing change and tried their best to be as gentle as possible, but the arm had protested more violently than Sam could remember since receiving the bite. In the end, he was glad that Dean and Bobby had been forced out and had gone off to work on Bobby's truck. If nothing else, it give him some time to collect himself and appear more comfortable than he really was before they got back.

The nurses had turned the TV on before leaving the room, hoping the distraction would help Sam relax and allow a second dose of pain medicine to work better. Sam had turned it off after only a few minutes, finding the cacophony of 'The Price Is Right' more than his shattered nerves could bear. Instead, he sat quietly on the bed and tried to distract himself from the throbbing in his arm by analyzing Dean's interaction with Dr. Hartzell. The surgeon had been his usual rude, crude and obnoxious self and Sam had expected Dean to be so infuriated that Bobby would have had to hold him back just so he wouldn't kill the man. But Dean had hardly batted an eye and then followed the man out of the room. He and Bobby had been certain there was going to be a round of verbal assaults in the hallway, but Dean merely returned minutes later looking rather dejected and defeated. Just what had gone down between the two men? And why was the surgeon's antagonistic behavior not conjuring up the typical badass response from Dean?

Sam had kept his cell phone charged and resting on the bedside stand so that he could reach Dean or Bobby if the need arose. As he sat considering the Dean and Dr. Hartzell mystery, the phone began buzzing and vibrating around the top of the stand. Sam gingerly reached over and answered.

"Hello?"

"_Hey, Sam, it's Jefferson."_

"Hey, Jefferson. It's been a while, you old dog. How you doing?"

"_Better 'en you I guess, Sam. Sorry to hear about you being laid up."_

"Well I'm doing a lot better now, thanks. What's up?"

"_I've got some information on what Bobby and Dean called about. I can't reach them, though. Keep getting an "Out of service area" recording. I figured I'd try the brains of the operation and, well, if you didn't pick up, huh? Anyway, just wanted to let you know that I haven't heard anything about that Scruggs guy, but Bennett's turned up dead - very messy dead. Like pretty obvious it was 'at the hands of a demon' kind of dead."_

"When did Dean and Bobby call you?"

"_Bobby called a couple days ago. Just asked a few questions about some guys named Scruggs and Bennett. Asked me to keep an ear out about them. Said it had something to do with a case the three of you had been working on. Hey, Sam, hate to cut you short, but I've got to run. I'll call again next week and see how you're doing."_

"Uh...yeah, ok. Talk with you later, Jefferson."

Sam flipped the cell phone shut with a slap and bounced the hand clutching it up and down on his left thigh as his mind tried to pick apart the puzzling call. "Ok," he said aloud to the empty room. "What the hell was _that_ all about?"

Sam's thoughts were interrupted when a light rapping came from the doorway. An elderly gentleman dressed in a light blue, button-front smock stepped into the room. The patch on the left chest of his smock said, 'Volunteer'.

"Hey, Clarence," Sam greeted, forcing a thin smile to his face in an attempt to cover his discomfort.

Clarence was a silver-haired octogenarian that volunteered at the hospital several days a week by pushing the magazine and book cart to patient rooms, engaging them in idle chit-chat and assisting them to pick items from the cart that might help to take their minds from their troubles for at least a little while. He'd met Sam not long after he'd awakened and immediately took to the well-mannered and gentle-natured youth.

Although the boy had obviously been very ill, Clarence could see that nothing ever got past him, he always seemed to notice even the smallest of details. So it was that Sam had seen and recognized the tiny portion of Clarence's Marine Corp tattoo that stuck out from under his upturned shirt-sleeves. Sam had asked him about it and Clarence had enjoyed regaling the mop-haired boy with stories of his time with the 2nd Battalion, 28th Marines and how they played a big role in capturing Mount Surabachi during World War II.

"Oh, dear," the amazingly robust elderly man crowed. His young friend was exceptionally pale and a thin sheen of sweat had sprung across his forehead. He was doing his best to appear normal, even pasting an artificial smile on his face, but something was clearly not right. "Are you alright, Sam? Do you want me to get a nurse?"

"No, that's ok, Clarence. They just finished my dressing change and the arm, well..."

"It's screamin' like a two-dollar whore, isn't it?"

Sam chuckled heavily. Even in his eighties, some fifty or sixty years after serving in the war, Clarence still couldn't seem to wash away the blunt and rugged part of him that had been built by the United States Marine Corp. In some ways, though, Sam mused, it was that rough around the edges, no-nonsense part of him that made Clarence seem so much younger than his years.

"Spoken like a true Marine, Clarence," Sam poked. "Don't know that I would have put it that way but, yeah, it's hurting quite a bit. I was just sitting here trying to distract myself until the pain meds took effect. I just couldn't take anymore of that TV."

"Baahh, that drivel," Clarence lamented. "Bob Hope, Bing Crosby, John Wayne - now _that_ was when they knew how to make good entertainment. Unfortunately, my cart's fresh out, so we're gonna have to settle for something else. Kinda slim pickin's I'm afraid but...oh, hey, I just got the newest issue of "Guns & Ammo" in. I'll even throw in a left-over copy of last month's issue for nothin'. My treat, seein' as how you need the distraction so bad and all."

The kindness of the old gentleman touched Sam and a genuine smile dimpled his cheeks. "That sounds great, Clarence. Thanks."

The aging veteran hurried back into the hall towards his pushcart, pleased that he could do something, even as small as it was, to try to distract the young man from his pain. Returning to Sam's room, Clarence placed the two magazines on Sam's overbed table and positioned it to extend across his lap like a desk.

"This issue's got a dandy article on the M1 Garand," the older man stated as he tapped on the top issue. "She was one of the first semi-automatics issued to American GI's during World War II and was quite the workhorse. Carried one of them myself. Quite the beaut, she was. And dependable as hell, too. Always ready when you needed her, you know. She was a damned fine weapon, in my opinion," Clarence reminisced. "But if you need a good laugh, check out the older issue. Some nutcase going on about 'magic' guns. It's amazing what they'll print today. Well, best get movin', Sam. If I don't get this cart back and hoof it to Mrs. Pulaski's room in time to eat lunch with her, she'll have my hide. She's a widow, you know, and I think she's sweet on me."

Sam chuckled at the antics of the boisterous senior citizen as he scooted quickly out the door and trundled his cart down the hallway. Pushing the issues so that they lay side by side, Sam opened each one to the contents page. He'd only just begun scanning the contents of the oldest issue when his eyes fell upon an intriguing article title. Flipping quickly to the listed page, he read with interest the article titled, "Samuel Colt: Fabled Firearm or Fanciful Fiction?"

When he'd finished the last word, he slowly laid the magazine back down on the overbed table. His head was a gyrating flurry of thoughts and emotions about the two men he'd read about in the article. Apparently, the same two men that Dean and Bobby had asked Jefferson to inquire about. Sam's fury flared as he realized that Bobby and Dean had kept the information from him and he crushed his thumb angrily onto the nurse's call button.

"Did you need something, Sam?," the young nurse questioned as she breeched the doorway to his room.

"Get me all the paperwork I'll need," Sam growled as he shoved the bedsheets aside with his left hand, "because I'm signing out against medical advice. Now!"

A/N: "Pandora's Box" is a track from Aerosmith's 1974 album, 'Get Your Wings', as well as the name of their 1991 compilation album. In Greek mythology, when Pandora's Box was opened all the evils and nasties of the world were accidentally released to wreak havoc upon the world. I thought it was a good choice for this chapter since Sam's injury and his discovery of the article about Sam Colt has pretty much opened up a Winchester-style Pandora's Box.


	2. One More From the Road

**Disclaimer: **Sadly, I own nothing related to Eric Kripke's world of Supernatural except for my own sick fantasies.

**A/N: **As promised, 'Atrox' is the continuation/sequel of my previous story, 'Crotalus', that I had to abandon due to health issues. I'd like to thank everyone of my readers for the wild ride they let me have with 'Crotalus' and welcome them back to this new/continued story.

For those of you just starting out with 'Atrox', I would suggest going back and reading 'Crotalus' first. In an effort to control the length of this fic and in an effort to not bore those of you that have already read 'Crotalus', I'm not going to go back into much detail of what's already taken place.

_There is a reference to an AED in this chapter. For those of you that aren't familiar, an AED is an Automated External Defibrillator. It's a computerized, emergency defibrillator that is designed to be used by the average, non-medically trained person and is becoming increasingly more common in businesses, schools and public areas. It automatically analyzes a victim's heart rhythm and advises when a potentially life-saving shock is warranted and when NOT to give one._

* * *

**Atrox**

**Chapter 1: One More From the Road**

**Community Hospital, ****Scorched Pines, California**

**Thursday, April 12****th; ****11:39 AM**

Sam was glad that Dean had brought him their Dad's old duffel with some different clothing in it in anticipation of his eventual release from the hospital. The large globe and anchor emblem of the Marines was stamped on the side with U. S. M. C. emblazoned underneath and it smelled slightly of mothballs, but at least it held clean clothing. The nursing staff had saved the clothes he'd come in with until he could say what he wanted to do with them and, quite frankly, even _he_ was sickened by the gore that covered them.

There was one thing that he wasn't happy about, though, and that was that he'd barely been out of bed in more than a week, never mind expending the amount of energy needed to dress and get around on his own. To make matters worse, despite the fact that the effects of the rattlesnake's venom had made his right arm a useless hindrance to him, the arm certainly didn't seem to have any qualms about registering its displeasure at even the tiniest movements Sam made.

As he'd struggled to dress, one of the younger nurses had taken pity on him when the charge nurse wasn't looking and slipped him a sling for the bloated and heavily bandaged limb. Still, it was awkward doing things with one arm, and the one that was his non-dominate arm to boot. It was a small consolation, but at least the sling kept his right arm from banging painfully against his side as he moved.

All the same, the pain and fatigue had become of little consequence to Sam after reading the article about Samuel Colt in one of the issues of "Guns & Ammo" that Clarence had given him. Dean and Bobby had known about the article and the information it contained, that much was obvious to Sam. Why else would they have had Jefferson acting as their bloodhound? Jeff had unwittingly admitted during his call that Dean and Bobby had had him sniffing around for information about two guys named Scruggs and Bennett; two guys that just _happened_ to have the same names as the guys in that article.

As Sam saw it, the chances of a coincidence like that were mighty slim, especially since experience had taught him over the years that 'coincidence' didn't live in their world. _Nothing_ in the Winchesters' lives had ever been coincidental; everything always happened for a reason - either because they were chasing evil...or because evil was chasing them.

This wasn't just some random coincidence and Sam was absolutely_ convinced _of that. No, Dean and Bobby had known that Scruggs claimed to have Colt's journal and even that he supposedly held the clues to where the original castings of their Colt revolver were hidden and they'd _purposefully_ kept that information from him. Their deception had angered Sam and the deep betrayal he felt over it had quickly channeled itself into a surge of energy that had seen him signing himself out against medical advice and making his way to the hospital's entrance.

Sam had called a local cab company and made arrangements to get a ride to the nearest bus station. Once at the station, the tousle-haired hunter planned to hop a bus to Wyoming and see what clues he could dig up about Bennett's death and hopefully Scruggs' and the journal's whereabouts.

Between the cab fare and the bus ticket, Sam figured what little money he'd salvaged from his ruined clothing would be all but tapped out. Maybe there would be enough left over to grab a burger and a Coke along the way, but that was about it. He didn't have any of Dean's fraudulent credit cards, but that was ok. Not only did he hate using them, but he knew that that would be one of the first things Dean would check. If Dean could track when and where the cards were being used, he could also track down Sam, something he couldn't afford until he could get more leads on Colt's journal...and until Dean could cool down a little about him skipping town on his own.

He'd left a note for Dean and Bobby with assurances that he was ok, but little else. Dean, if not Bobby, too, would most certainly try to stop his quest and, if he was going to make it to Wyoming and get the information he wanted, he was going to need to stay a step ahead. Dean was smart in his own right, but when teamed with Bobby, the two of them were formidably skilled and amazingly brilliant hunters and trackers. He knew it was just a matter of time before they'd figure it all out and catch up to him. All Sam was asking for was enough of a head start that he could make it to Wyoming before they were snapping at his heels and Dean was chewing his ass for doing something so reckless.

Considering his physical condition after his all too recent run in with a rattlesnake, Sam thought everything had gone rather smoothly and he was feeling pretty confident that he could pull off his mission. Confident, that is, until he realized that the cab was late.

The anger he'd felt at Dean and Bobby had fueled his escape from the hospital but the longer he had to wait around for the cab, the worse he was starting to feel. Despite the cool Spring breeze that brought the sweet scent of freshly blooming mountain lilacs to his nose, Sam felt flushed and sweaty. As another wave of heat overtook him, he pushed his thin jacket open and tugged lightly at the collar of his shirt, his fingertips brushing the dressing that covered the healing wound left when the doctor had finally removed his trach tube.

The air around Sam felt stifling and thick and he could feel his breathing quicken slightly. _You are __**not**__ gonna pass out. Got it, Winchester? _He snaked his left hand into the front pocket of his jeans and felt for the inhaler he knew should be there. For once, luck had been on his side and the doctor had allowed him to keep the medicine at his bedside. His still swollen and irritated throat had forced him to use the inhaler several times in the hospital and he'd been certain to grab it from his bedside stand when he'd signed himself out. _It's still there. Good. Now get a handle on yourself. You're never gonna make it to Wyoming if you can't even make it past the hospital entrance without passing out._

Sam felt the increasing burn of exertion creeping up the muscles in his legs and a subtle trembling in his left hand as he rubbed it across his dampened brow. _You are __**not**__ gonna pass out. Come on, take some big breaths. That's it. _Sam tugged again at his collar, trying to flap some cool air down his shirt and onto his overheated skin as he looked around for a place to sit down. _Better to sit down and regroup while trying to look relaxed and cool than to pass out and get your ass dragged back into the hospital._

About fifty feet from where Sam stood waiting, there was a low retaining wall that fronted a garden decorated in a sea ofyellow and white daffodils that swayed gently with the air currents. The spot had never been intended as a seating area but to Sam, a man on the verge of collapse, it appeared as a welcome oasis of rest and relief. Putting one leaden foot in front of the other, he slowly padded over, listlessly dumped his duffel on the concrete walkway and settled carefully onto the stone wall.

A large sigh wriggled out and Sam closed his eyes and concentrated on steady his breathing. He wiped again at the sweat that had beaded on his forehead and upper lip before opening his eyes and drinking in a deep breath of the cool air. Sam marveled at the pallor of his own skin as his left hand settled on his knee and propped his sagging frame. _Geez, I must look like roadkill. Kinda __**feel **__like roadkill. I'll be lucky if the driver doesn't take off without me out of fear I'm gonna buy it in the backseat of his cab._

Sam looked at his watch and cursed silently under his breath. Every minute that he sat here waiting for the overdue cab was another minute closer Dean and Bobby could be to intercepting him and forcing an end to his plans. As he sat and mulled over the debacle that would ensue if Dean and Bobby caught him, a car swept to a stop at the end of the wall.

"Hey, Buddy! You the one that called for a cab?"

Sam looked up see a white Plymouth Reliant at the curb, its driver leaning across the front seat in order that he could yell out the partially open front passenger window. Bright green lettering on the side door declared the car belonged to 'Neil's Wheels'. Beneath the company logo, in smaller print, was a line stating 'Neil Hitchins - Owner/Operator' and the taxi service's phone number, two of the digits having already flaked away and a third well on its way to doing the same thing.

Sam didn't know nearly as much about cars as Dean did, but by the looks of it, Sam figured the Reliant was probably an '86 and a well-used one at that. Even during its prime, it had been little more than basic transportation and that was long before the car had been beaten up by the rough roads and long hours as a taxi. Seeing the vehicle, he could understand why Neil had offered the lowest fares in town. Still, Sam was just happy to get the ride and if he saved a bit of money in the process, all the better.

"Yeah," Sam called out. "Be right there."

Gathering up the duffel's handles in his left hand, Sam rose from his perch and started for the cab. After just a few steps, Sam's head began to feel light and fuzzy and he felt as though he was walking on rubber legs, each step punctuated by a distinctive wobbling sensation. _Don't even __**dare**__ think about passing out now. It's not that far. You've dealt with injuries before, you can deal with this. You are __**not**__ gonna faint like some girl._

He wasn't exactly sure just how he made it to the cab, but Sam was relieved when he had finally flung his bag onto the back seat and slid in next to it. The accommodations weren't exactly luxurious and his long legs were rather cramped, but it still felt good to sink into the softness of the rather dingy-looking upholstery and he rested his head back against the top of the seat with a small sigh of relief.

"Sorry I'm a little late. Damn storm damage still has some routes closed. Had to take the long way here," Neil explained. "Where're you headed?"

"Bus station," was all Sam could manage as he closed his eyes against the wavering focus of his surroundings and tried to quell the sudden tossing of his stomach.

**-:-:-:-:-:-:-**

**Somewhere along Rt. 10, ****Southern California**

**1:30 PM**

"So, how do you think things went?," Dean questioned his friend and confidant as they drove Bobby's battered truck back towards the hospital.

"Well, she's purrin' like a kitten now, so I'd say our little tune-up was just what the old gal needed," Bobby crowed happily. "With the famous Winchester-Singer team workin' on her, what else did you expect?"

Bobby had always enjoyed the times when Sam and Dean had come to his place when the hunting world got too hot and John had to find someplace safe for the boys to crash. But Bobby had always especially enjoyed the "special" time he spent with each youngster during those visits.

With Sam, it was always the quiet exploration of one of Bobby's rare volumes, each of the hunters sipping at mugs of hot cocoa that Sam had insisted be absolutely _overloaded_ with creamy marshmallows. Looking back, Bobby was pretty certain that was the start of Sam's love for those syrupy-sweet, high-dollar, latte thing-ies with the names too fancy and complicated to pronounce.

On the opposite end of the spectrum was the time he spent with Dean - both of them in grimy jeans and sweaty shirts, with dirt under their fingernails and grease to their elbows, radio cranked and ice cold Cokes to chug-a-lug as they happily worked for hours under the hood of whatever derelict car Dean fancied to restore. As the years went by, Dean's drink of choice had morphed from Coke to beer, but the rest had thankfully remained the same. The time they'd spent together today tinkering with Bobby's truck had been a welcome release for the older man and a brief return to a time when it seemed that life was just a little bit easier and a lot less scary.

"That's not what I meant," Dean corrected.

"Oh, right," Bobby added almost embarrassedly. _Shoulda known the boy'd be thinking about Sam._

"B-but don't get me wrong," Dean added quickly when he saw Bobby's face fall in disappointment. "I had a great time working on the truck with you. Kind of like old times, you know? But I was wondering how Sam's dressing change went. It's going to be the first good look he's had at the arm since we were in the woods."

"I'm sure he did fine, Dean. Sam doesn't freak out that easy and he's got the nurses there to help him through it."

"Yeah," Dean agreed with an airy chuckle. "I suppose the little nerd's not as much of a pussy as I make him out to be."

Bobby laughed openly at the younger hunter's words. Although they could be considered rather derogatory, Bobby understood the deep respect and even deeper affection that was hidden behind the vulgar slang.

"Do you think it's possible?," Dean queried.

"Not only do I _think_ it's possible," Bobby began sincerely, "I _know_ it is. Sam never would have made it out of those woods after that bite and beaten the odds that were stacked against him like they were, if he wasn't made of some pretty strong stuff."

"No, Bobby," Dean replied peevishly. "That's not what I meant."

"Jesus, boy," Bobby barked back, shooting a look of annoyed confusion in Dean's direction. "If you're gonna change subjects like that, the least you could do is give me a map so I can follow just where the hell it is that you're goin'."

Dean glanced apologetically at his friend. It was true, he had been changing the subject without any real warning or indication of just what it was he was talking about. Thing was, with everything that had happened recently his head was a constantly muddled and turbulent toss of thoughts and emotions.

"Sorry. Guess I was rambling just a bit."

"Just a bit?," Bobby quipped, a twinkle of mischief evident in his eyes.

"Ok, ok. Guilty as charged," Dean acquiesced, throwing his hands in the air as if in surrender. "Nah, I was just thinking about the piece on Samuel Colt that we found in that issue of "Guns & Ammo". Do you really think his journal and the fabricating plates for the revolver could exist?"

"Sure. You know that anything's possible," Bobby asserted. "The Colt, itself, was nothing but a legend until it turned up virtually out of nowhere and Dan Elkins hid it away for safe keeping. If the Colt exists, why not the journal or the castings?"

Dean only nodded silently, the wisdom of Bobby's words spurring even more thoughts and questions in Dean's mind. The hum of the truck's tires filled the cab as the conversation lagged. Dean had become lost in his own thoughts and fantasies. Where had Sam Colt hidden the revolver's forging plates? And why would he have done so if he hadn't planned on making another? And then what about Colt's journal? What secrets and knowledge did it contain that had been lost to the ages? Did the strongbox that had hidden its existence for over one-hundred years have any significance or was it just the Old West precursor to the Impala's false-bottom trunk, a convenient hiding place during travel? Then, of course, there was the frontier church in which the box had been found. Why would Colt leave behind something so important to a hunter when he returned East? And why _that_ church? Was it one of the churches that helped to form the giant Devil's Trap that Colt had constructed to contain the Hell Gate?

_If I have all of these questions, _Dean ruminated, _I can only __**imagine**__ the number of questions a brainiac like Sam is gonna have. I can just hear the non-stop analysis Sam will be jabbering on about when he finally gets out of the hospital and we can follow-up on those leads. Oh, crap! Sam._

Dean squirmed on the seat of Bobby's truck as he twisted around to dig into the rear pocket of his jeans. He pulled out his new cell phone and stared at it with a slight pang of remorse. He had really liked the features on his old phone but had been forced to buy another after confirming that his and Sam's misadventure in the stream had left the old one so waterlogged and shattered as to be beyond resurrection.

He slid the sleek black cover back and gawked at the display with irritation. He pressed some buttons, hoping to illicit a response, but the electronic device remained stubbornly unwilling to cooperate.

"Thought you said you called Jefferson from out here? I can't even get a signal. Keeps flashing "Out of Service Area"."

"I called him from out behind Toby's garage. Didn't have a problem. Hang on," Bobby requested as he released one hand from the steering wheel and shoved it into one of his pockets. After a few awkward tries, he produced his cell phone. "Maybe it's just your phone. Lemme try mine."

Bobby flipped the phone open, one eye on the road as he continued to drive, the other on the display. He held the phone out, moving it up and down and then side to side to see if he could catch a signal. When nothing happened, he folded the cover closed and slipped the phone back into his pocket much more easily than it had come out.

"Nope. Nothing for me, either," Bobby confirmed. He leaned over the steering wheel slightly and peered up at the bright, nearly cloudless blue sky. "Sure ain't the weather that's doin' it, but I'd hazard a guess these thick stands of pines and high ridges are to blame. Who ya callin', anyway? Jeff said he'd give us a buzz if he had anything on Scruggs or Bennett."

"Yeah, I know. I wanted to call Sam and check on how he was doing."

"Maybe it's for the best you couldn't get a signal, Dean," Bobby soothed, his mind flipping back to how irritable the younger boy had been because of Dean's mother henning after Sam's surgery. "The dressing change was bound to be painful and he needs the chance to rest without us janglin' his nerves. Sure, he's doin' a lot better now, but he's still been through a lot and needs his rest."

"I know," Dean sighed. "It's just..." Dean pittered to a stop, not certain just what it was he wanted to say. He stared out the window at the scenery that flashed by as he tried to collect his thoughts and dispel the odd feeling that was creeping in. He couldn't put his finger on it, but something was amiss.

"It's what?"

"I don't know, Bobby. Maybe I'm coming down with something, maybe all the stress is finally catching up with me. I'm not sure. I just feel like I've got this knot in my stomach."

Bobby waved his hand back and forth in front of his face a few times and scrunched up his nose. "Wouldn't have anything to do with that triple-deluxe, double-meat, Tex-Mex burger with the jalapeno cheese sauce and extra onions you ate, would it?"

**-:-:-:-:-:-:-**

**Bus station, ****12 miles outside of Scorched Pines, California**

**2:15 PM**

Despite the sling, Sam had cradled his right arm with his left and still he'd felt every pothole there was between the hospital and the bus station. Just the same, the taxi ride had given him a chance to rest and it had been restorative enough that he felt much stronger and steadier when he climbed from the cab, dragging his duffel out behind him.

He pulled his money from his jeans pocket and leaned down to the cabbie's window to pay his fare. He struggled for a minute to flip the bills out one-handed and count them, the driver watching all the while. Sam flashed him an embarrassed smile after three or four unsuccessful attempts, eventually surrendering the whole wad and allowing the cabbie to count out the correct amount.

"Must really be a bitch," the driver said, gesturing at Sam's bandaged arm and sling.

"You can say that again," Sam snorted in agreement as the cabbie shifted the dilapidated taxi into 'Drive'. "Hey, Neil, I can't thank you enough for the lift."

"No problem, man. You looked dead on your feet when I picked you up," Neil explained. "Glad I could help."

Sam waved his thanks to the driver as the taxi pulled from the curb and disappeared into the melee of traffic. Shrugging his USMC duffel further onto his left shoulder, Sam turned on his heel and started for the entrance to the bus terminal. He certainly wasn't going to be running any marathons for a while but he was happy that at least some of his energy had returned. And, although the potholes in the road had sent pain flaring up his arm with each jolt, Sam was pleased that it seemed to have quieted down quite a bit during the last mile or so of smooth roads.

Sam entered the terminal's turnstile doorway just as a throng of travelers began swirling their way through the door from the opposite side, some carrying luggage, others pulling it along behind them on tiny wheels that clacked noisily against the station's tiling. The agile hunter easily shuffled the position of his rucksack in order to slip effortlessly into the cramped compartment of the revolving door. Unfortunately, another man wasn't nearly as coordinated as the youngest Winchester.

Sam was caught off-guard and his right arm and shoulder slammed painfully into the unforgiving surface of the glass and metal door when the back edge of the man's large suitcase jammed the door to a sudden and unexpected halt. An involuntary scream shot from Sam's throat as the sudden flare of intense pain caused a wash of dizziness to surge over him. Sam struggled to stay on his feet as undulating currents of sparkling lights flickered across his graying vision.

A loud, collective gasp came from the crowd of people entering and exiting the small bus terminal as they witnessed the accident. Several men rushed forward in an effort to assist the businessman in releasing his jammed luggage from the revolving door.

Sam felt as though he was on a Tilt-a-Whirl as the ground beneath his feet seemed to heave and ripple with chaotic randomness. His left hand flailed wildly for the door's push-bar as Sam frantically tried to steady himself before the overwhelming vertigo could cause him to lose his balance and crash to the floor in a heap. A loud moan passed over his lips as fiery pain continued to scorch its way over every surface of his right arm.

A man dressed in a tailored dark grey suit with a pale grey shirt and red tie peered through the glass door at Sam as he wobbled dangerously. "Hey! Hey, kid! Are you ok?"

Sam thought the security of the metal push-bar would slow the shifting of his surroundings but his head felt increasingly woolly and the sounds around him were nothing but muffled rumbles of unintelligible noise. Despite the perceived security the door handle provided Sam, the sensation of motion continued until he found himself unable to maintain his balance and he could feel the blood draining from his face. A hot flush spread over Sam's body and he could feel himself breaking out into a sweat. He leaned heavily against the glass door, hoping the cool comfort of the surface would help to clear his head.

"Hey, kid! Come on! Talk to me!" The grey-suited man turned towards the other men as they still struggled to pry the businessman's bag loose. "Hurry up! I can't get him to respond and he's not looking so good. I think he's about ready to pass out!"

The small group of men worked with a renewed urgency, finally shoving at the valise so violently that it suddenly broke loose with a resounding 'thunk'. The grey-suited man had been joined by a younger man dressed in jeans and a sweater and they quickly spun the door open just as Sam surrendered to the inevitability of collapsing. The two men caught him just as he slumped towards the floor.

"Take him over there," the ticket agent yelled, gesturing towards the largest open area in the small lobby. He'd seen the events unfolding from his place behind the counter and had rushed over with a small emergency kit to help. "If we push that postcard rack out of the way there's plenty of room to lay him down there."

The grey-suited gentleman slid his arms underneath Sam's and clasped his fingers tightly together in front of Sam's chest. Not knowing just what injuries the young man had sustained to earn him the bulky bandages and sling, he was careful not to jostle him too roughly. The sweater-clad young man grabbed the legs of Sam's jeans and, together with the other man, gently carried Sam, his head lolling limply with the motion, the fifteen or twenty feet to the spot that the clerk had indicated. The businessman trailed nervously behind, his scuffed and dented luggage forgotten and left lying in a heap.

"Oh, God," he twittered excitedly. "Is he ok? I-I didn't mean to hurt anyone. He's ok, right?"

"Let's get his jacket off," Grey-suit directed as he supported Sam's upper body while pushing the jacket from its position where Sam had simply slung it over his right shoulder. Sweater-boy tugged at the left sleeve until it slid from Sam's listless arm.

"Here," the station clerk declared as he set Sam's duffel down next to the unconscious young man. "We can use this to get his legs up."

"He's gonna be ok, isn't he?," Businessman questioned apprehensively as he stood anxiously nearby and wrung his hands.

Grey-suit and Sweater-boy each raised a leg while the station clerk prodded Sam's soft bag underneath them. As he situated the duffel, the clerk noted the large United State Marine Corps emblem.

"I've got the station's AED, too," the clerk announced. "Somebody unbutton his shirt while I get it set up."

"You don't think he'll sue me, do you? I mean, it was an accident. Really," Businessman asserted.

"I called 911," a middle-aged woman called out from the crowd of people that had gathered. "There's an ambulance on the way."

Grey-suit finished unfastening the last three buttons on Sam's shirt and pushed the material aside at nearly the same time that Sweater-boy had undone the left cuff and shoved the sleeve upwards. The sudden rustling of shocked whispers convulsed through the crowd as Sam's chest and arm were exposed. The bandage over his former trach site at the base of his neck and the extensive, deep bruises of Sam's recent bleeding disorder shone out like beacons against his pallid skin.

"I didn't do that!," Businessman hollered out fearfully to the assembled crowd. "I couldn't have. There's no way I can be blamed for that!"

The clerk was poised to apply the AED pads to Sam's chest when he was stopped in mid-motion by the sight before him. "Holy crap! What the hell happened to him? I can't believe he was even on his feet!"

"He's kind of clammy," Sweater-boy exclaimed. "We ought to check his pockets for any medical ID tags, too. My brother, Dave, is a diabetic and gets real clammy like this when his sugar's too low."

Grey-suit checked the right pockets while Sweater-boy checked the left ones and the clerk worked to correctly apply the AED pads. Neither man turned up any medic tags but Grey-suit had pulled Sam's wallet from his pocket and was riffling through it for any emergency information.

"Ok, everybody back off," the clerk commanded. "Don't anyone touch him until the AED has the rhythm analyzed.

"_Analyzing rhythm...," _the electronic voice on the AED stated.

As the clerk waited for the AED to do its work he looked the unresponsive young man over, marveling again at the intense bruises on his chest and ribs and the thick bandages on his neck and right arm. The clerk's eyes reached the distinctively olive-colored duffel under Sam's lower legs and it brought to mind the well-known symbol he'd seen on it earlier. Suddenly, everything seemed so clear to him.

"_No shock needed," _the AED's electronic voice droned before repeating it. _"No shock needed."_

The small crowd watched intently as a small groan came from the pale young man sprawled in front of them on the bus station floor. Awareness was returning slowly to the youngest Winchester and it started, as usual, with the flickering prickle of pain that ran the length of Sam's right arm.

He stirred slightly and winced when the pain in his arm intensified. Sam tried to open his eyes but just couldn't seem to make his leaden eyelids cooperate. He knew he was lying on a hard surface and sensed that there were people crouched around him but his head was still too foggy to understand just who was there.

"D-Dean?," Sam rasped out, his voice still scratchy from the recently removed tracheostomy tube.

"Easy there, soldier," the clerk soothed. "Just take it easy."

"I didn't find any medical info, but I found a driver's license," Grey-suit proclaimed as he spun the plastic ID in his fingers so that it faced Sweater-boy and the clerk. "Says his name's Vincent Furnier." Peering down at Sam he called out to him, hoping to rouse the still pale looking youth. "Vince? Vince, can you hear me?"

_Vince? Who's Vince? Oh, crap! I'm pretty sure they think that's me. Obviously those people can't be Dean or Bobby. _Sam stirred again and used the fiery pains that burned up his arm as fuel to push him towards consciousness. As his eyelids fluttered open to small slits of green, the small crowd crushed in even closer. _Aw, man! Public! You passed out in public, you nimrod! Keep calm. Don't say too much until you know what's going on. You don't remember what ID you had in your wallet so just sit back and take your cues from the circus your nosedive created._

"We've got an ambulance coming," the clerk assured, "so you just lay back and..."

_Ambulance! _Sam sat bolt upright, hissing in pain as the sudden movement jostled his traumatized arm. "No!," Sam yelled out and tried to crab-walk back from the crowd around him. "No ambulances. I...I'm fine...I just..."

"Hey, hey, hey," the clerk placated the agitated man, raising his open palms in front of him to show Sam that he meant him no harm. "It's ok. We're not going to hurt you. It's alright to stand down now, Marine."

Sam looked down at his gaping shirt and the pads that had been affixed to his chest. Wires trailed from each pad and back to a small, bright yellow device that laid on the floor nearby that he recognized as an AED. He looked at the crowd around him with a confused expression and tried to get his muddled brain to wrap itself around the current situation.

"W-what?"

"Your arm," the clerk started, "it got slammed pretty hard when the door jammed. Marine or not, considering the shape you're in, I'm surprised you hadn't passed out sooner."

_Marine? What the hell is he talking about?_ Sam cradled his right arm in his lap, scrunched his eyes tightly shut and groaned loudly as a particularly vicious stab of pain coursed through his arm and shoulder. In all of the ruckus, the sling had become displaced and the useless limb dragged heavily with each movement, a factor that had only added to the pain inflicted by the impact with the door.

As the spasm passed, Sam sat breathing heavily for a few seconds before gazing up and scanning the sea of concerned faces that surrounded him. The whole situation felt so surreal. He didn't recognize any of the faces in front of him but they had clearly tried to help him. Sam also couldn't recall what alias he was supposed to be using and, for the life of him, he couldn't figure out why the one guy kept calling him 'Marine'.

"He seems kinda out of it," Sweater-boy stated matter-of-factly. "Dave gets the same way when his sugar's too far above or below normal. You're not diabetic, are you, Mister?"

"Huh? What? Oh...no," Sam denied. "I-I'm not diabetic."

Sam jumped visibly when Grey-suit placed his hand lightly on his right thigh. "Vince?," the man questioned lowly. "Vince, do you know where you are right now?"

"Uh, yeah. I'm at the bus station. I'm headed back to Wyoming." Normally, Sam wouldn't have given away such accurate information but the crowd, and especially the three men squatting next to him, were looking at him as though they didn't think he was quite all there mentally.

"Look," Sam continued on as he began peeling the AED patches from his chest. "I'm ok really. Nothing a little glass of water couldn't cure."

"Flo," the clerk called out to an older woman standing nearby. "Can you get Marine Furnier a drink of water?"

_There it is again - Marine? What the hell? And Furnier. Oh yeah, that's right. The ID says Vincent Furnier. Ok, catching on here folks._

Businessman dramatically surged from the crowd, pointing accusingly at Sam. Sam jumped at the sudden intrusion into his space and slunk back warily as the man proceeded to yell loudly. "You all heard that, right? He said he was fine...said I didn't really hurt him! I wasn't trying to hurt anybody! It was just a stupid accident!"

The clerk grabbed at Businessman and gave him a shove back into the crowd. "Somebody get rid of that guy. This brave, young man was wounded fighting for our country and he doesn't need to deal with that." Turning back to Sam who still sat shocked and unsure of exactly what was going on, the clerk continued. "Flo's gonna get you some water but I want you to sit back and relax until the ambulance gets here and the paramedics can check you over."

_Shit! I'd forgotten that they'd gone and called in the cavalry! _"No paramedics, please! I just need to leave. I can't stay here." Sam awkwardly buttoned his shirt with one hand and began readjusting his sling with an assist from Grey-suit. The crowd had apparently decided that there wouldn't be much left to see and had started to slowly disperse as Sam gathered himself to get off the cold, hard floor.

_And what's all that stuff about some soldier getting wounded in the line of duty? I don't see any soldiers..._Sam bent and grasped the handles of his duffel..._around here. _A sudden realization hit him as he stood up. _Oh my God! This guy saw my Dad's duffel, my arm and the bruises and assumes that I'm a GI that was wounded in Iraq!_

"I appreciate your concern, but I was just released from the hospital. They wouldn't have let me go if I wasn't ready," Sam lied. "It was just...getting hit by the door...the pain just made me lightheaded, you know?"

"Hey, I really hate to run," Sweater-boy said apologetically, "but I've got to catch a connecting bus. I hope you get back home ok, Vince."

"Yeah, I'd like to stay and make sure you're ok," Grey-suit confirmed, "but my boss is expecting me at a big corporate meeting and I'm already late. You look after yourself, alright?"

"I will," Sam assured them sincerely. "And thanks for your help, guys. It's nice to know there's still good people out there."

"I bet you were at the Naval Hospital at the Marine Corps Air-Ground Combat Center in Twenty-nine Palms, huh?," the station clerk guessed.

Sam was still trying hard to catch up with all that had gone on and the perceptions that the people around him had drawn. And, to be honest, he still wasn't really all that sure just what hospital he had been at. He'd been nearly unconscious when the Impala had screamed to a halt in front of the Emergency entrance and he was so concerned with making a quick getaway before Dean and Bobby returned that he hadn't taken notice of the hospital's name on the sheaf of AMA papers he'd signed.

"Something like that," Sam found himself saying, at a loss for what else to say until he knew what all he might have revealed when he was semi-conscious.

"Got a son about your age in the Air Force," the clerk confessed. "But it doesn't matter what branch you are, only that you've stood up for the best Goddamned country in the world. By the way, name's Mick...Mick Rockwell."

"Nice to meet you, Mick," Sam answered, his left hand pumping Mike's outstretched right hand in a brisk handshake. "Guess you already know my name," Sam added with a slight laugh.

"Helluva way to meet a guy," Rockwell affirmed. "Why don't you come on over to my counter and I can get you set up with a ticket back to Wyoming? Flo," he called out as he and Sam started for the ticket counter, "Could you bring Vince's drink over to my window, please?"

"Sure thing, Mick!"

Sam leaned tiredly against the ticket counter as he waited for Rockwell to get around to the opposite side. Flo bustled over with a small glass of water that she set proudly in front of Sam. "There you go, sweetheart," she cooed adoringly. She plunked a twenty ounce bottle of soda on the counter next to it. "I also got you a bottle of Pepsi to take with you. Thought you could use the sugar rush."

"Thanks, Flo," Sam gushed appreciatively, a slightly embarrassed flush blazing in his cheeks as he dug his left hand into his jeans pocket to pay for the drinks.

"Uh, uh," Flo tutted at the handsome young man as she waggled her finger back and forth at him. "Not on your life. Just think of it as my little way of thanking a wounded veteran."

"But, Flo," Sam stammered. "I'm not..."

"Now shush, puddin'," the aging flirt purred. "I won't take no for an answer."

"Just how is it that you got wrapped up with the Corps, Vince?," the clerk questioned as he appeared suddenly behind the counter. As Sam turned to answer him he noticed for the first time the "Support Our Troops" button that Mick wore on his shirt. Behind him was a gaggle of patriotic signs, posters and bumper stickers proudly displayed for all customers to see.

Sam chuckled scornfully as images of the way in which his father had raised him and Dean flashed through his head. "I was born into the Marine Corps, Mick."

Rockwell snorted loudly. "All you Gyrene's are the same, you know that? So gung-ho for the warrior's life that you try to convince everyone you meet that you started your Marine training the day you took your first step."

Sam smiled a cheerless and half-hearted grin. "Gung-ho for the warrior's life. That's me alright," Sam repeated sarcastically.

"Ok," the clerk began as he rolled the computer's mouse around on its pad a few times to bring the suspended computer screen back to life. "Let's see about getting you that ticket. Where in Wyoming you call home, Vince?"

"Well, actually, I was hoping to snag a ticket to Rosary, Nevada before heading to Wyoming. Gotta buddy I want to visit there," Sam fibbed. Although Mick had been incredibly kind, Sam knew that he needed to cover his tracks if he wanted to keep ahead of Dean and Bobby. If he went straight from California to Wyoming Dean would quickly and easily catch up with him. If, instead, he took an indirect and less obvious route, he'd probably be able to shake the two older hunters long enough to gain a few days on them.

"Rosary, huh? Not much out that way..."

Mick stopped suddenly as he saw the abrupt change of the young man in front of him as the wail of sirens could be heard approaching. The man shifted nervously on his feet and glanced worriedly towards the entrance before frantically trailing his eyes around the bus station as if looking for another exit.

Sam knew that allowing the paramedics a chance to check him over would only slow him down and possibly allow Dean and Bobby to figure out that he'd disappeared and to where. He also realized that the fewer people he had to give his alias to the harder it would be to track his movements. He just _had_ to get to Wyoming and find that journal. Maybe, just maybe, there might be something in it that he could use to save his brother from the crossroads deal.

"Please, Mick," Sam begged. "I can't stay here. I _have_ to get out of here. I can't explain it, but I've got to get out of here before the paramedics get here. And you've got to tell them it was a false alarm, that there's no patient to treat. Please, I'm begging you."

The clerk eyed Sam with suspicion. What was it about the paramedic unit that had this kid so spooked? Why was he acting so skittish and desperate to leave before they arrived?

"I've served my country, Mick, and it's cost me so much," Sam implored, his expressive eyes tearing up at the thought of everyone he'd lost. "Can't I catch even a little break in return?"

Sam absolutely deplored himself for playing on the man's patriotic sympathies and dishonoring the men that truly had served in Iraq. Still, he _had_ been and still _was_ serving his country, only in a different kind of war...a demonic one.

Rockwell looked across the counter at the bedraggled and fretful man. He couldn't begin to claim that he understood the young man's request, but something in the fearful and almost hunted look in his eyes convinced him that he needed to do what he could for him.

"Ok. There's a bus leaving for Cherry Creek right now," Mick explained as he hammered away at his computer keyboard. "From there, it's a short hop to Rosary. I'll hold the bus until you can board. Now grab your kit and hustle. I'll take care of the paramedics."

Sam jammed his good hand into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out his crumpled wad of cash, tossing all but five dollars on the counter top. "I hope that covers it. It's all I've got."

Rockwell pushed the money back at Sam. "You keep it. I'll be too busy to count it," Mick said with a conspiratorial wink.

Sam shouldered the duffel as quickly as he could and started for the rear door of the small station, the word "BOARDING" stenciled over the lintel. As he reached the door, Rockwell called out to him. "You watch out for yourself, ok? And, hey man, Semper Fi, dude."

"Yeah," Sam said wistfully, "Semper Fi."

* * *

**To be continued...**

* * *

A/N: "One More From the Road" is the name of Lynyrd Skynyrd's first live album, the only one recorded before the plane crash that took the lives of lead singer Ronnie Van Zant and band members Steve and Cassie Gaines. 


	3. Over the Hills and Far Away

**Disclaimer: **Plot's mine, sadly the boys aren't.

**A/N: **This chapter's a bit shorter than the last and isn't horribly filled with action or limpness, but it was a necessary "bridge" chapter to advance the tale. Hopefully, it won't bore you all to tears. For any of you readers that I've missed responding to, I'm sorry, but please know that I appreciate you spending your precious time reading and reviewing.

* * *

**Atrox**

**Chapter 2: Over the Hills and Far Away**

**_Community Hospital, Scorched Pines, California_**

_**Thursday, April 13****th**_

**_2:05 PM_**

"I'll be glad to get back upstairs and check in on Sam," Dean admitted candidly as he and Bobby rode the visitor's elevator to the fifth floor of the hospital. The knot that had formed in Dean's stomach on the drive back from Toby's garage hadn't loosened despite their arrival back at the hospital and he knew it wouldn't until he could see with his own eyes that Sam's dressing change had gone well.

"He's a tough kid. Don't sell you brother short, Dean."

"I know. It's just that I...," Dean stammered and then stopped. How was he going to explain the squirmy feeling he had if even he, himself, couldn't understand _why_ he had it. "Ah, just forget it," he dismissed and stuck the straw from his take-out cup into his mouth.

Bobby stared disbelievingly at Dean as the younger man slurped noisily at the last of the contents of the McDonald's cup he held in his right hand, a small take-out bag gripped firmly in his left. Dean's tough-guy exterior had been forged in the fires of too much tragedy at too young an age. But, from time to time, the little boy that had never really had a chance to exist shone through unconsciously.

"What?" Dean's eyes bounced from Bobby and around the elevator car and back again several times, clearly uncertain what Bobby was eyeing him for.

"Nothin' really. I just could have sworn you'd already passed your sixth birthday, is all."

Dean flashed his thousand-watt, innocent-choir-boy grin and held the now _very _empty cup aloft. "Shamrock Shake," he proclaimed appreciatively.

"Uh huh," Bobby affirmed, all the while looking at Dean as though he'd lost his mind. "I'm surprised you could hold anything more after that Tex-Mex burger you ate at Toby's. Hell, my truck _still_ reeks of onions."

"Hey, thanks for stopping off to get these," Dean stated sincerely as he gestured with his drink cup. "Sammy used to drive Dad _insane_ this time of year asking for Shamrock Shakes. He hasn't been eating well at all and I thought maybe one of these might spark his appetite. Maybe even soothe his throat a little."

The elevator crawled to a stop at the fifth floor and the doors slid open almost immediately. Turning left, Dean and Bobby headed past the nurse's desk and down the hallway to Sam's room. Dean didn't even pause to knock on the open door's frame before barging right in.

"Rise and shine, Princess," he called out mockingly. "The best big brother in the world's brought you a Shamro-..."

Dean jolted to a stop, his voice trailing off just as Bobby entered the room behind him and nearly slammed into the younger man. Sam wasn't in his bed as Dean had expected and the room seemed eerily quiet. Something about it all made the knot Dean had had in his stomach since starting back from the garage twist a bit tighter.

**xxxxx**

**_Bus station_**

**_2:53 PM_**

Sam was glad there was an empty seat at the rear of the bus. Not only would he be less likely to be jostled by other passengers entering and exiting from stops along the way, but he felt he would be better able to maintain a low profile in the back.

Maintaining the low profile, however, wasn't all that easy when he found that with only one useful arm he was unable to hold the overhead storage compartment open and stuff his duffel in at the same time. Unfortunately, the accommodations were too cramped for him to stow his bag at his feet and he struggled with the overhead compartment until a figure appeared next to him.

"Here. Let me help you with that."

Sam turned to find the bus driver standing to his right, his hand outstretched towards Sam's bag. "I think I can get that in there a little easier than you can," he attested, gesturing at Sam's bum arm. "Why don't you just try to get comfortable."

"Thanks," Sam offered gratefully as he wearily relinquished his duffel. He really didn't think he had the energy to fight with the uncooperative compartment and bag any longer, anyway.

Sam settled slowly into the cushioned seat of the bus. The abuse his arm had taken in the station left him feeling as though he had long shards of glass sticking from his flesh that ground and stabbed at him constantly. The sling helped to support his right arm across his chest but even the tiny motion his arm made with each breath just proved to fuel the agony.

Sam rested his head back against the high-backed seat, closed his eyes and sighed. He heard the compartment push shut with a muffled thud and then the softly retreating steps of the driver as he returned to the front of the bus. Sam was so tired he was certain he could fall asleep before the driver even made it back to his seat, but he wondered if the sharp pain in his arm was going to allow it any time soon.

A gentle rumble rattled under Sam's feet as the bus's large diesel engine turned over and the bus began to pull away. His eyes shot open, suddenly remembering his cell phone, and Sam fumbled in his pocket until he pulled it from its nook. Dean had used the phone's G.P.S. capabilities to locate him once before and he wasn't about to let that happen again, at least not until he was in Wyoming and had his prize in his hands. Sam turned the off phone and stuffed it back into his pocket, anxiously scanning the station's lot as the bus headed through it on it's way towards the highway. Finding no sign of Dean nor Bobby, Sam melted back into his seat and allowed the tension to flow from his body. He had done it. He'd made a clean escape and with every mile that rolled behind him, he was another mile ahead of Dean and Bobby and another mile closer to his quest.

**xxxxx**

"Sam? Sammy," Dean called out as he carelessly dropped the bag with Sam's milkshake in it on a nearby table and headed for the closed bathroom door. "Sammy, you'd better be decent 'cause I'm coming in if you don't answer me in ten seconds."

Dean paused for what accounted to about two seconds and pushed the bathroom door wide. Finding nothing but an empty room, he stepped in and swiped irritably at the shower curtain. Suddenly, the milkshake Dean had drunk wasn't leaving nearly as much of a cold pit in his stomach as were his own fears. Something was wrong. He could feel it. Sam was supposed to be here when he got back and he wasn't. Something had to have happened and Dean was pretty certain it couldn't be anything good.

"Bobby, he's not here! I _knew _something was wrong. I _knew _I should have stayed with him."

"Calm down, Dean. Dr. Hartzell said something about getting him started with a Physical Therapist," Bobby reminded his distressed friend. "They probably have Sam down there working on getting his hand working better, so let's just not go getting all bent out of shape until we know we have a reason to."

Dean paced a few times as he considered his friend's words. Dr. Hartzell _had_ mentioned physical therapy. Maybe Bobby's theory was right. It would certainly explain why Sam wasn't in his bed like he should be. "Yeah, ok. You're right. But if he's not back in fifteen minutes, though, I'm going down to the nurse's station and find out what's going on," Dean threatened as he settled into one of the chairs that he'd practically called home for the past week.

Bobby sighed, reaching up with one of his rough hands to massage the tension that had formed across his neck and shoulders. He prayed that Sam would get back soon because he had seen how freaked Dean had been when Sam had gone missing in the diner and had later turned up in Cold Oak. And that was when Sam was in perfect health. With him still being so weak and having his right arm out of commission, Bobby knew Sam's vulnerability extended beyond just supernatural forces. Sam's poor health and his unwillingness to back off and care for himself could quickly and easily become a volatile and potentially deadly mixture...and Bobby knew that Dean knew it, too.

The older hunter moved across the room to stare out the window, hoping the natural beauty of the mountainous area would help to clear his burdened mind and settle his quickly fraying nerves. Dean shifted in his chair and his eyes roamed over the room again. "Bobby," he called out, his voice cracking slightly over the man's name.

The older hunter turned from the window he was staring out as Dean rose from his seat and crossed the room to Sam's bed. He picked up a small placard that had been folded over and placed on the neatly smoothed bed linens and turned it so Bobby could see. "Since when has Sam had a sign on his bed that says, 'Cleaned and made with care for the comfort of our _next_ patient'?"

"Dean, this is the first time Sam's been out of bed long enough for housekeeping to get in here. They probably do that with all of the beds they clean. I really don't think it's anything to worry about," Bobby assured the increasingly agitated Dean even though he was beginning to get a sinking feeling of his own.

"Oh, hey, Miss," Dean called out as he jogged for the door. "Excuse me, but could you tell me when the patient that's in this room will be back from Physical Therapy?"

The willowy blonde dug into her uniform pocket and extracted a piece of paper. After looking it over she shook her head confusedly. "Are you certain you've got the right room number? I just received an updated room assignment sheet not long ago and, well, there's no patient assigned to this room right now."

Dean felt the first biting slivers of real fear slash through him. Had something happened and Sam's condition taken a turn for the worst again? Had Sam been moved back into the ICU? "I-I don't understand. My brother...he was in this room. He was getting his dressings changed. I only left because they told me I had to."

"Hold on a minute sir," the nurse said as she pulled a nearby rolling computer station towards her. "If we plug his name into the computer system we'll be able to figure out what room he's in. What's his name?"

"Winchester. Sam Winchester," Dean replied shakily as he felt Bobby sidling closely up beside him.

"There he is. Room two-eighty-five, bed...oh, no...wait. That's a Sam Win_field_." She dragged her finger slowly down over the computer screen as her green eyes darted back and forth comparing the names. When she got to the bottom of the list she looked up at Dean and Bobby. "I'm sorry, but I'm not finding any Winchester currently admitted to this hospital."

It didn't pass by Bobby unnoticed when the color drained from Dean's face and there was a sudden sway in the younger man's stance. "I'm sure there's a simple explanation, son," Bobby stated, laying a reassuring hand on Dean's shoulder. "They probably transferred him to a different room and it's not showing up in the computer system yet. That happened when he was moved from the ER to ICU. Practically gave me a heart attack thinkin' something awful had happened."

"No. No, something's wrong. I know it is. I've got this pit...in my stomach...something doesn't feel right." Dean turned suddenly from the small group and charged back into Sam's room with Bobby and the nurse close on his heels. He tossed the closet door wide and shoved the empty hangers roughly aside as he pushed in close and ran his hands quickly back and forth all over the top shelf.

When he didn't immediately turn up anything, Dean abandoned his search of the closet. He didn't even bother to take the time to push the cupboard doors shut, just leaving them open as he dived towards the small bureau on the adjoining wall. Dean quickly pulled the drawers open one by one and haphazardly dug through the contents of each of them, not caring if some of the items were flung messily to the floor.

"What are you doing?," the nurse questioned anxiously. The rising pitch of her voice hinted at the fact that Dean's behavior was starting to scare her. "What are you looking for?"

Dean turned suddenly and grabbed the frightened nurse by the upper arms and shook her firmly. "The Bible!"

"Dean," Bobby yelled. "Take it easy! We'll figure this out."

"The Bible," Dean yelled at her again as he shook her once more in his urgency. "The Gideon's Bible! Where is it?!"

"Dean, stop this," Bobby yelled again as he tried to pry Dean's strong hands from the nurse's arms. "What's gotten into you?!"

"I've got to find that Bible! Now where is it?!" Dean's hazel eyes flashed with danger as his piercing stare dug deeply into the nurse's own eyes, causing her to shudder visibly.

"I-it's in t-there," she stammered nervously, as she pointed at something behind Dean. "In the s-stand next to the bed. Top drawer."

Dean released his hold on the young nurse so quickly that she stumbled a step or two back before skittering from the room like a frightened rabbit. Dean didn't give her even a moment's notice. He was already at the bedside table and yanking the top drawer out viciously. He grabbed up the well-known Bible and started flipping pages ferociously.

"Dean," Bobby tried. "Dean! What are you looking for?"

"The Gospel according to Mark," Dean hollered back in irritation, as if it should have been perfectly clear to anyone. "I need to find Mark 9:38!"

Bobby scrunched his face in confusion. "Mark 9:38?" The older hunter mentally sifted through his Biblical knowledge and, after recalling the passage, began reciting it in an effort to understand its current significance. "John said unto him, 'Teacher, we saw a man casting out demons in thy name and we forbade him, because he followed not us.' But Jesus said, 'Forbid him not: for there is no man who shall do a mighty work in my name and be quickly able to speak evil of me. For he that is not against us, is for us.'" Bobby scratched his head in thought, still not seeing the connection that Dean was drawing. "Ok, so I'm still not getting how any of that has anything to do with Sam."

"If we ever get separated we always check into the first hotel in the Yellow Pages under the name of James Rockford, right?"

"Sure. That way you know how to find each other," Bobby stated.

"With Hendricksen on our asses, we've had a couple of close calls. We decided that, if we're forced to move on before we hook up with each other, we should leave the other a note..."

"...in the Bible, the only place the maid service won't find it and toss it or the cops won't think to look," Bobby finished for him, finally understanding Dean's thought pattern. "And what better passage for a couple of hunters than one about casting out demons." A sense of pride had leeched into Bobby's voice as he saw once again what resourceful young men the boys had grown into.

Dean flipped a few final pages and snatched a loose sheet of paper from the Bible he held in his hands, snapping the book shut with a resounding crack and flinging it carelessly onto the nearby bed. His eyes skimmed quickly back and forth over the page, the squiggled and uncoordinated forms of Sam's awkward left-handed letters making it difficult to read. "Son of a bitch," Dean exclaimed. "He took off. Sammy signed out AMA and took off!"

"What?! Where did he go?"

"I don't know, Bobby." Dean shoved the paper at his friend and began pacing wildly when Bobby took it from him. "I don't even know _why_ he went. I don't even know where the hell to start looking!"

"We'll find him."

"No! No, don't you say that! The last time you said that to me we were at the Roadhouse. Ash was dead, Ellen was missing and Sam..." Dean looked away with a pained expression and swallowed convulsively, his jaw muscles bunching with tension. "Bobby, the last time you said that to me, it all ended with my brother and me hunched in the South Dakota mud and Sammy dying in my arms."

"That's not gonna happen this time," Bobby insisted.

"How can you know that?"

"Because we're not gonna _let_ it happen. We're gonna figure out the why's and the where's by keeping our wits about us and thinking like the hunters we are, that's how."

**xxxxx**

**_Somewhere along Route 93, Nevada_**

_**Thursday, April 13****th**_

**_6:18 PM_**

It had taken quite a while, but Sam's right arm eventually calmed down a little since his accidental impact with the bus station door. Instead of being excruciating, the stabbing pains had decreased to a nearly insufferable and ever present ache. He had picked up a bottle of Tylenol and a bottle of Motrin at one of the short stops along the way and downed a dose of each medicine with some of the Pepsi that Flo had given him, but neither medicine had done much to ease his discomfort.

In the end, though, Sam's exhausted and debilitated body had succumbed to the soothing hum of the tires against the pavement and the gentle sway of the bus. He sat with his left shoulder slumped into the wall next to him, his head resting lightly against the cool window and his long legs unfolded as much as the cramped seating would allow. The Impala it wasn't, but it was restful enough that Sam was soon lulled into a fitful sleep.

Sam hadn't thought much about the Colt after Dean had used the last bullet to kill the yellow-eyed demon at the Hell Gate. It had been in their possession and Bobby had worked long and hard to try to discover its secrets but Sam had seen it as little more than a tool of the trade and had given it little thought. That had all changed once he'd read that article about Samuel Colt. Suddenly, Colt the man and Colt the revolver were the only things he could think of. It had instantaneously become an obsession for Sam and soon after falling asleep, thoughts of the Colt had begun invading his slumber as well.

The dreams had started out innocently enough. Mostly it was Dean just being Dean, flashes of him happily target practicing as a teen, pulling practical jokes on Sam and drumming on the steering wheel of his beloved car to the pulsating beat of some rock and roll song that reverberated from the Impala's speakers; all memories from before the Colt had entered their lives.

Soon, though, the dreams had turned to nightmares, the pleasant flashes of happy images being replaced by bursts of memories of the loss the Colt had caused. Dan Elkins, Caleb, Father Jim - they'd all died because of that weapon. They'd lost their father, too. John had freely given his life in order that Dean could live, but the Colt had figured large in that tragedy, as well.

The worst, though, were the dreams of things yet to come. Like their Dad, Dean had bartered his life, his very soul, to bring Sam back from the dead. Dean now had less than one year to live and Sam's tortured mind conjured a multitude of horrible mental pictures of how his older brother would be taken from him and the things that Dean would endure as a consequence of his deal.

The worst nightmare was the one where Dean's time was up and a band of demons had come to escort him to Hell. That, in itself would have been bad enough. But before they took him, they held Sam down and forced him to watch as they tore at Dean's flesh, beating and torturing the older boy mercilessly. The awfulness of the torture that Dean endured and the demons' perverse enjoyment of it escalated with each passing moment as Sam bucked and thrashed against his captors. Sam screamed and fought to no avail until, finally, the demons dragged Dean's lifeless body down to Hell.

It was from this nightmare that Sam awoke suddenly, his mind muddled and confused by sleep and horrifying dreams and his body drenched in sweat. In the terror of his confusion Sam and struggled against hands that held him. He tried repeatedly to scream his brother's name but his dry and still swollen throat emitted nothing more than unintelligible grunts and rasps. The bus had pulled to a stop on the side of the road and excited voices rung out all around Sam.

"Oh, my God! Is he having a seizure? I think he's having a seizure!"

Still peeling away the layers of sleep, Sam continued to thrash as he looked around wildly for his brother. In his distress, Dean's name finally bellowed with a jagged coarseness from his tortured throat.

"Somebody hold him down before he hurts himself!"

"I'll get 911 on the line! Is he conscious and alert?"

A confused Sam attempted to shrink back from the well-meaning hands that reached out to help him. He could feel his breathing hitching from the stress and he coughed roughly against the irritation. Sam dug into his pocket and fumbled for the inhaler he knew was there. He could feel his throat tightening and knew he needed to head things off before they got much worse if he hoped to avoid a trip to another hospital.

"Take it easy, pal," a man commanded when he saw the uncertain and defensive posture Sam had adopted. "I just want to help."

"No...am..bulance...I...I'm...ok," Sam puffed out between labored breaths. His head was starting to clear now and a better understanding of the situation was slowly filtering in. As he continued to dig, the inhaler finally popped free from its pocket but tumbled from Sam's still quaking fingers as he tried to bring it to his mouth. The nightmare had seemed so real and seeing those horrible things happen to his brother had really shaken the young hunter.

Sam's chest heaved spasmodically and tight, barking coughs punctuated his breaths as he chased the errant inhaler around on his seat where it fell. He finally grasped it in his left hand and hungrily pulled the aerosolized medication into his constricting throat and lungs.

"He's having trouble breathing," a woman screamed hysterically. "He's gonna die if we don't do something!"

The bus driver appeared in front of Sam once again and knelt down to his level. Seeing the apprehensiveness in the young man's eyes he spoke soothingly. "It's ok, buddy. I'm just going to reach up and loosen the buttons on your shirt a little. Ok? That might help you breathe a little better."

Sam wordlessly nodded his assent, working to calm his nerves and his breathing as he took a second drag on the inhaler. The driver undid the top three buttons of Sam's shirt and pushed the material back. He gasped slightly upon seeing the bandage and bruising at the base of Sam's throat and sat back with a concerned look on his face.

"You had recent throat surgery?" A tone of disbelief and definite unease had worked its way into the tone of the driver's voice.

"Tr-...trach," Sam wheezed out breathlessly before raising the inhaler and drawing in yet another dose of medication. They'd told him in the hospital that if he needed more than two puffs on his inhaler he needed to be checked by a doctor. But Sam didn't have time for that now and he prayed the third dose would work.

"Ok. Just try to relax as much as you can," the driver intoned as he looked around nervously, trying to figure out what he should do next. The young man in front of him was obviously having a medical crisis but seemed to think he could handle things on his own. On the other hand, if the man was wrong and things only continued to worsen, he was going to have a bus full of people watching a man die waiting for the ambulance he didn't call for.

Making up his mind and turning to the gentleman next to him, the bus driver instructed, "Stay with him. Try to keep him as calm as you can. I'm heading back up front to call for a medic unit."

As the driver rose to leave, Sam grabbed his arm. "No! Don't...need one...Doing...better." The driver looked at him as though he wasn't sure he believed him. "Give me...ten...minutes...Please...you can't...call...an ambulance."

There was something about the eyes of the mop-haired lad that was nearly irresistible. Despite his better judgement, the driver found himself giving in to the boy's plea. "I'll give you five minutes. If you're not doing better by then, I'm calling for a medic," he threatened. "Sooner, if you show even the slightest sign of getting worse."

" 'kay," Sam relented, creases of pain etching lines in his youthful face as he rose shakily from his seat. "Need some...fresh air."

The driver and the small crowd that had formed around Sam followed him up the aisle of the bus. The driver's hand steadied at Sam's left elbow when he wobbled slightly as he descended the few steps to the sandy soil of the roadside.

The cool evening air felt refreshing and helped to further relax Sam's breathing. If anything was suffocating Sam now, it was the sea of eyes that watched him from the bus and the well-meaning but ultimately smothering concern of the passengers that had followed him out of the bus.

Sam walked about ten yards from the milling group as they murmured amongst themselves, recounting the events. Statements like, "Man, I was _so_ scared", "Did you see those bruises?" and "I thought for sure he was a goner" flitted over to him on the gentle Nevada desert breeze.

"Whoa, there. Just where do you think you're going," the driver asked. "I want you where I can see you so I know you're doing alright."

Sam nodded with understanding. He knew his dramatic nightmare and subsequent breathing issues had scared everyone and, of course, drew unwanted attention to himself. "I'm sorry about that," Sam confessed, his eyes filled with guilt. "I know I scared everyone but I'm doing better, really."

"Just what the hell was that, anyway? You yelled for 'Dean'," the driver reminded Sam as he scanned the expectant faces staring out at them from the bus. "Should I go get him? Is he traveling with you?"

"No...no, there's no one with me. I just had a really vivid dream and it kind of snowballed, but I'm doing better now. All I really want is to get to Cherry Creek where I can crash in a real bed."

The bus driver looked over Sam with a critical eye. The young man really _did_ seem to be doing better. Sure, he was still pretty peaked and sickly looking, and God only knew what was going on with that arm, but the asthma-like wheezing had faded away and he no longer gave off the vibes of a wild animal that had been cornered and was fighting for its very life.

"Alright, folks," the driver yelled over his shoulder, his eyes never leaving the exhausted looking man in front of him, "Let's load up and head out. We've got a schedule to keep."

"Thank you," Sam sighed out in relief.

"Don't thank me until we get to Cherry Creek," the driver warned. "You even so much as hiccup and I'm finding the nearest hospital or paramedic. Got it?"

The driver didn't even wait for Sam's answer, instead turning back towards the bus and herding the straggling crowd to their seats. A large, dimpled grin spread over Sam's face as he heard the driver muttering under his breath about having lost his mind to let some foolish kid play him like that.

**xxxxx**

**_Easy Doze It Motel, Scorched Pines, California_**

**_7:42 PM_**

"I don't like it, Bobby," Dean fussed as he paced worriedly around the room.

"I kinda caught on to that fact the first hundred and fifty times you said that. But I still think this is the smartest thing we can do right now."

The uncertainty was weighing heavily on Dean and the guilt that he should have been with Sam to stop him was only adding a weight of it's own. What was killing him, though, was the knowledge that he had absolutely _no _clue where to start looking for Sam. The similarities between his disappearance in West Texas and now seemed uncanny. Had Meg come back to toy with Dean some more by making Sam her own personal, life-sized puppet?

The consequences of her possession had torn Sam apart emotionally...and that was before Dean had made his deal with the Crossroads Demon. The impact of the deal, alone, had left Sam teetering on the emotional edge. A possession now might prove to be enough to send him plummeting into despair. Who knows what might happen to Sam then. The thought sent a shiver of fear up Dean's spine.

"Just tell me again why I'm sitting in this crap-hole of a motel room when I should be out looking for my brother."

"And where is it that we're gonna look, Dean? Sam's note didn't give us even a _hint_ of where he was going or even what was goin' on in his head, for that matter," the elder hunter reasoned. "We've already canvassed the hospital and turned up nothing. The Impala was still in the parking lot so he didn't hot-wire it for a set of wheels and we've checked the local library..."

"...and we've gotten nothing but a big, fat goose egg," Dean finished for him. "That's precisely my point, Bobby."

"Look, technically, the two of you are separated, right?" Dean nodded in agreement and Bobby forged on with his explanation. "This is the first motel listed in the Yellowpages. You checked us in under the name of James Rockford like you always do. We have no other leads but to sit back and see if he comes looking for you."

"I just can't stand sitting here doing nothing when Sam is God only knows where, getting into God only knows what. Why would he just take off like that?"

"You know how bad Sam is with hospitals since the crash that almost killed you and then losin' your Daddy. He probably just got skittish and signed out before he thought things through."

Bobby was struck by how frightened and lost Dean appeared. It reminded him of an eight year old Dean. Young Sam was just four and John was three days overdue from a hunt. As usual, Sam was full of questions - When was Daddy coming back? Didn't Daddy love them anymore? Why would Daddy leave them and not come back? Didn't Daddy want them? If everything was ok, why was Daddy late?

Dean had spent hours soothing his younger sibling with stoic assurances and confident words until Sam had fallen asleep in a ball of twisted blankets. Bobby had stopped in to check on the boys before retiring for the night to find Dean huddled in the corner, his arms wrapped tightly around his knees and rocking slowly back and forth. The fear that shone in the boy's eyes had nearly broken Bobby's heart. For all the strength and bravado he had affected for Sam, at the heart of it, Dean was just as frightened and uncertain as his younger brother. As he stood in the dingy motel room with a nervous and fidgeting Dean, Bobby realized that time had done a lot to physically change the boy, but had done nothing to change the things that scared him most.

"At first light," Bobby promised, "we'll go back to the hospital and see if we can dig up anything else. With an arm like that, someone had to have seen something. You know Sam. He always seems to attract attention without even tryin'."

"That's what I'm afraid of," Dean confessed.

"He can take care of himself, kiddo. After all, he's a hunter...and a Winchester. Anyway, he couldn't have gotten far without some wheels. I'm sure we'll find him tomorrow."

**xxxxx**

**_Stagecoach Lodge, Room 9; Rosary, Nevada_**

_**Thursday, April 13****th**_

**_8:13 PM_**

The rest of the bus ride had, thankfully, been largely uneventful. It had taken a while for the people seated around Sam to relax again. He had seen them darting furtive glances at him, checking to make certain he was ok. Sam had understood it and had even smiled embarrassedly when he caught someone staring, but the attention unnerved him and he found himself sitting very tensely for the remainder of the ride.

After hitching a ride from Cherry Creek to Rosary, Sam had walked the few blocks to the nearest store and purchased a five pound bag of salt. The Yellow-eyed Demon was gone but that still left plenty of other threats and Sam wasn't taking any chances. By the time he'd walked another six blocks and checked in at the Stagecoach Inn under the name Vincent Furnier, Sam's arm was practically screaming at him and his body, mind and soul were beyond exhausted.

Traipsing tiredly to Room 9 he pushed the key into the lock, turned it and stumbled through the door. He flipped the switch for the light with his elbow and knocked the door shut behind him with a kick of his foot. Despite the sleep he'd gotten on the bus, Sam was spent to the point that he functioned on autopilot as he lined the door and window frames with salt. The procedure had long ago become routine and Sam thought he could probably do it with his eyes shut. In fact, he wasn't so sure that wasn't exactly what he did.

Finishing up, he folded over the partially used bag of salt and placed it with his duffel. He kicked his boots off and grabbing a few Tylenol and Motrin tablets, downed them with a Dixie Cup full of water before padding soundlessly to the bed, eyes already at half-mast.

Sam sunk his aching body onto the bed's comforter without even turning it back or changing out of his clothes. Gingerly, he removed the sling that supported his flaccid and useless right arm. Maybe it would hurt a little less if he could stretch it out a bit. After all, it had been trussed up in that sling for more than eight hours.

As he used his left hand to unfold his powerless right arm he noted an irregularly shaped patch of dried blood that had seeped through on the underside of the bulky dressing. _I guess crashing into revolving doors isn't exactly what the doctor would have ordered, _Sam thought ruefully as he settled back onto the inviting softness of the bed. _I'm too tired to worry about it tonight, though. I'll just deal with it in the morning._

* * *

**To be continued...**

* * *

A/N: "Over the Hills and Far Away" is the third track on Led Zeppelin's 1973 album, "Houses of the Holy". I thought the title was perfect to head up a chapter where Sam was so many miles from Dean and Bobby.


	4. Separate Ways Worlds Apart

**Disclaimer: **No infringement intended, no profit made.

**A/N: **In this chapter we see Dean doing one of his trademark 'fly by the seat of your pants, lie about who you are to get what you want' sort of covers. Please be assured that I, in no way intend for his cover story to offend the brave men and women that have so proudly and honorably served, died and/or been wounded in any branch of the U. S. Armed Services in any theater, most especially Iraq.

* * *

**Atrox**

**Chapter 3: Separate Ways (Worlds Apart)**

**Stagecoach Lodge, Room 9; Rosary, Nevada**

**Friday, April 14****th**

**5:07 AM**

Sam groaned loudly. Just yesterday the plan to leave the hospital and set out on his quest to find Samuel Colt's journal had seemed so simple and straight forward. Today, well, not so much.

Yesterday, it all seemed so easy. Just hop a bus to Cherry Creek, make the short hike to Rosary, then a few choice changes in location to throw Dean and Bobby off for a short time, and, finally, head to Wyoming where he'd go in search of Norman Bennett's antique shop and see what clues he could find in the search for the whereabouts of Benton Scruggs and the journal.

Today, it seemed to Sam that there was no end to the exhaustion that flowed through every cell in his body despite nearly seven hours of sleep in a motel bed. It also seemed as though there wasn't an area of Sam's body that wasn't sore. Sometime over the years, Sam had read that more than six hundred muscles made up the human body and he was pretty damned sure he could feel the ache in each and every one of his.

Sam turned his head to see the clock and let out another groan when he caught sight of the numbers on the red, LCD display. "Aww, man. Five AM already? I swear I just went to bed," Sam grumbled to himself, unhappy that he didn't feel at all rested despite the sleep he'd gotten.

Sam swung his legs over the side of the bed and pushed to a sitting position, hissing sharply when his right arm lagged painfully behind the motion. He reached across and, cupping the weakened limb in his left hand, he slowly lifted it up and over until he could gently place it so that it rested on the top of his right thigh.

Sam looked at the feeble limb contemptuously. Why did he have to lose the use of his arm now? Why did it have to happen when Dean's life was at stake? Ok, so in their business their lives were _constantly_ at stake. But why now, when Dean's deal was made, the chips were on the table and it seemed that the Devil was the one holding all of the cards?

_Ok, Sam. Enough with the self-pity. You were the psychic...the mind over matter guy. If it's gonna move, it's gonna move because you __**made**__ it move. _Sam concentrated with every ounce of will and energy he had, but the fingertips refused to budge._ Alright. Well, maybe the fingers are too much to ask for at this stage. Go for something more basic. _

He tried again but, this time, he concentrated on flexing his right bicep. Sam felt the nearly imperceptible contraction of the muscle an instant before the searing pain hit. The minute movement made it feel as though the muscle had raked its way across jagged slivers of broken glass. Sam's head shot back and a harsh moan poured through his clenched teeth, his nostrils flaring as he sucked in heaving breaths.

Sam sat breathing heavily for a few minutes as he waited for the agony to subside but a faint smile curled at the corners of Sam's mouth. The pain sure as heck hadn't been pleasant and he really couldn't claim any earth shattering movement, but it was movement just the same. At this point, he would take anything he could get. _Hey, a guy's got to crawl before he can walk, right?, _Sam mused.

Sam leaned carefully over and snatched the sling from where he'd dropped it the night before. Fumbling with just his left hand, it took several tries before he could position the sling so that it would properly support his right arm. As he did so, his eyes fell upon the brick red stain that colored the gauze enshrouding his forearm.

He knew that he shouldn't put off a dressing change any longer, especially since there had obviously been some bleeding after his accident at the bus station. The doctor had warned about the possibility of infection and had insisted that the hospital staff change the bandages twice a day. But taking the time to shop for bandaging supplies would put Sam behind schedule and if he hoped to stay ahead of Bobby and his brother, he needed to keep moving. What would it really matter if the dressing change had to wait a few more hours? _The dressings are clean and dry and the wound is well-protected. It'll be fine until I can change everything at the next stop. A few more hours isn't really going to matter in the end. _

**-:-:-:-:-:-:-**

**Easy Doze It Motel, Scorched Pines, California**

**8:00 AM**

"Hell yes, I'm freakin' out, Bobby," Dean yelled across the hood of the Impala as they stood once again in the motel parking lot. "Sam never showed here at the motel, he's still not answering his cell and we've checked every hotel, motel and bed and breakfast in this backwater burg and there's still no sign of him! It's like he's fallen off the face of the earth! He hasn't been at any of the local libraries so far and after we blow through what's left of _that_ list, I have no idea where to look next! So, unless you know where he's disappeared to, I'm officially bypassing freaked and heading straight for full-on irrational!" Dean's sentences all spilled out in a rush of frantic words that left him panting breathlessly.

"We still have another library and three bookstores to check. If we still don't turn up anything at any of them, I think we ought to go back to the hospital and see what we can find," Bobby proposed.

"No one was able to tell us anything yesterday, Bobby. What good is going back there going to do us?"

"What good is _not_ going back there going to do us," Bobby questioned wisely, trying his best to keep Dean from completely losing it. "You said it yourself, we don't have any other leads to follow up."

Dean was practically going out of his mind with worry. Sam had just barely cheated death after being bitten by that rattlesnake and he was still extremely weak. He'd hardly been out of bed and when he was, he tired quickly or, worse yet, the strain played havoc with his throat and lungs.

Although Sam had only been on the ventilator for four or five days, it had been enough that Sam's lungs had gotten lazy and easily irritated until he'd get to the point of being winded and short of breath. What if something happened and Sam couldn't breathe? Who would be there to help him?

Then, of course, there was the subject of Sam's right arm. It would have been bad enough if it was simply that Sam had little to no movement in his arm and hand. That, alone, put Sam at risk. It's not like he was going to be able to adequately defend himself against another _human_ with only one useful arm. How could he possibly protect himself against something with the strength of the supernatural?

But that wasn't the only factor. Sam was only one day out from a major surgery to clean dead and dying tissue from the extensive wound that had been left in the wake of the snake's venom. The surgeon had recommended amputation and Sam had promptly refused, a move that firmly put him in danger of a catastrophic infection. He was supposed to be getting twice daily, sterile dressing changes. There was just no way Sam would be able to care for his arm by himself.

"I hate it when you do that, Bobby," Dean growled.

"What?"

"You do exactly what Sam does. You throw my own words back in my face."

"So, then you're admitting that I'm right," Bobby quipped.

"No," Dean denied vehemently, a cocky grin lighting his face with an air of mischief. "I'm admitting that you're irritating."

**-:-:-:-:-:-:-**

**Stagecoach Lodge, Rosary, Nevada**

**8:15 AM**

The motel had made a big show of providing a continental breakfast of a Danish, some orange juice and a large carafe of coffee. They'd even gone to the extent of delivering it all right to his room, but it really was a pitifully insufficient meal. The size of the breakfast hadn't really ended up being a problem for Sam, though. To be honest, he wasn't all that hungry this morning and he was glad he hadn't had to spend any of his preciously short money supply.

Sam's appetite had been off since the envenomation and all of the problems that went along with it, but it was nearly nonexistent this morning. He wasn't sure if it was the pain or the fact that he was swilling Tylenol and Motrin like there was no tomorrow that was killing his appetite. Whatever the cause, the motel's breakfast had actually been more than he could handle.

The coffee had been far too dark and strong for his liking, more along the lines of the battery acid Dean seemed to favor. As he stirred his fourth packet of sugar and third creamer into it, he felt pretty certain that all that he would get back was the handle, the well of the spoon surely having been eaten away by the corrosive-appearing java. Two sips of the horribly bitter brew and he was done, the mug of offensive liquid shoved off to the side and ignored.

Sam had managed three-fourths of the Danish and half a glass of orange juice, but then his stomach had started to hurt and he just decided it would be easier to give up. Maybe his stomach would settle down a bit by lunchtime and he could score a healthful salad with grilled chicken and croûtons tossed on the top and drizzled with Caesar dressing.

**-:-:-:-:-:-:-**

Had Sam had the use of his right hand, the note he needed to leave for Dean and Bobby would have taken no time at all. But Sam was no lefty and the irregular squiggles and oddly shaped letters on the paper in front of him had proven that. It had taken his uncoordinated left hand an inordinately long time to trace out the few, short things he wanted to say and it _still_ looked like it had been written by a third grader. Worse yet, the effort it had taken to try to craft the letters had taken a chunk of his already sapped energy reserves.

Sam re-read the note another time to make certain he hadn't inadvertently given away any clues as to where he was heading. Satisfied with the ambiguity of the note, Sam rose from his chair, slipped open the drawer of the nightstand and removed the Gideon's Bible. Setting the hardbound book on the bed he opened the cover and quickly flitted through the pages, flipping back and forth a few times before finding the passage he was looking for.

Sam folded his note over once so that it wouldn't stick out beyond the edges of the Bible and slipped it between the pages of the Gospel of Mark. He closed the book, returned it to the nightstand and pushed the drawer shut with a tired sigh.

In some ways, he hated the fact that he had just taken off...no notice, no goodbyes and most of all no explanations. Sam knew what it was most likely doing to his brother, but he also knew that Dean would never understand why he had to do it. He'd never understand it, because it was for Dean. If it was a quest to save Sam, that would have been just dandy. Dean would have dragged his beaten, half-dead body across the nation to do it...and already had. But this was Sam pushing the limits of his own endurance for Dean and that just wouldn't be acceptable.

Sam trudged to the bathroom and splashed some cool water on his face. He knew he had to put a little over three hundred miles behind him today and, this time, there would be no bus. If he was going to make it to his next destination, he was going to have to hoof it or hitch...and most probably, a combination of the two.

If he was going to catch a ride, he was going to have to _look_ a lot better than he felt. No one was going to want to let him into their vehicle if he appeared like he was Typhoid Sammy. And with his energy level currently on the MIA list, he most certainly didn't relish a three-hundred mile hike through the Nevada desert.

Sam looked at himself in the dingy mirror over the sink and was surprised by the dark smudges under the eyes of the man that stared back at him. His skin had lost its healthy glow and he was pretty sure he'd lost a few pounds since his misadventure with the snake. The alarm on Sam's watch chimed and tore his attention from the mirror. If he wanted to stay on his self-imposed scheduled he was going to have to get moving. He was already falling behind and he hadn't even tackled the dressing change he'd fobbed off last night.

Sam dashed another handful of water on his face and dabbed quickly with one of the rough motel towels. He raked his left hand through his disheveled hair a few times before moving back into the bedroom. Sam looked around the room to assure he wasn't forgetting anything important then grabbed his duffel and headed for the door. _I can't risk it. I can't spare the time it would take to mess with the bandage. Tonight. I'll do it tonight, for sure. _

Stepping on through the open door, Sam paused with his hand on the doorknob and gave the room one final glance before snapping off the light and pulling the door shut behind him.

**-:-:-:-:-:-:-**

**Community Hospital, Scorched Pines, California**

**1:36 PM**

"This is a waste of time," Dean pouted. "We've been over this room a half-dozen times already and we've talked to everyone that had even the most superficial contact with Sam. If there was anything more, we'd have found it already."

"Aw, shoot," an unfamiliar voice pronounced disappointedly. Dean and Bobby turned to see an older gentleman just inside the doorway. He was dressed in khakis and a white polo shirt that had been topped by a light blue smock that was unbuttoned down the front. He held a thick, hardback book in his right hand and bounced the bound edge uncertainly in the open palm of his left hand. "I was hoping to get here before Sam went off for Therapy or something. Just got in the newest Michael Crichton novel. Figured it would be a sure hit with young Sam. You know, take his mind off his troubles and all."

"Still think there was nothing more to find, boy?" Bobby was looking straight at Dean with one eyebrow raised in a non-verbal 'I told you so' and a purposeful pointedness to his glare.

The elderly hospital volunteer looked uncomfortably back and forth between Dean and Bobby. "Guess I'll just come back again later," he said hesitantly and turned to slip away from the odd tension hanging over the room.

"No, wait!" Dean crossed the room in an instant and caught the man by the forearm, causing him to turn and face the two hunters. "You know my brother? You've talked with Sam?"

"Sure I have," the octogenarian proclaimed. "Nice kid. Dealing with a pretty tough break, but I don't have to tell you that."

"No. No, you don't," Bobby assured the man. "This is Sam's older brother, Dean. I'm his uncle, Bobby."

"Clarence Durden. I manage the magazine and book cart," the senior explained.

"When did you talk to Sam last? Was he acting ok?" Dean's eyes burned with the fire of urgency and his words ripped from his mouth like bullets from a machine gun.

"I talked with him yesterday, right after his dressing change." Clarence's eyes bounced from Dean's to Bobby's face, clearly confused by the questioning. "He tried to cover it up, but I could tell he was having a lot of pain."

"What did you two talk about?," Bobby queried.

"Nothing much, really," Clarence confessed honestly. "He said he was trying to distract himself from the pain but couldn't find anything decent on the idiot box." Clarence hooked his thumb at the television that hung from the wall behind him.

"What else," Dean pushed. So far, Clarence hadn't been a well-spring of valuable information and, elderly or not, Dean was going to keep interrogating him until he spewed something worthwhile.

"Did something happen?" Genuine concern flecked the aging veteran's voice. "Is Sam ok?"

"Just answer the question," Dean bellowed. On a good day, Dean wasn't exactly known for anything more than nominal people skills and his anxiety was getting the better of them at this point.

"Dean," Bobby chastised, his hard glare being cast off by Dean's dismissive shrug. Dean was already frantically digging out his ringing cell phone, his hopes high that Sam was finally calling.

"_Sam?"_

"We're just worried about him, Clarence," Bobby went on. "He signed out AMA sometime yesterday and took off. We don't know why and we haven't been able to find him. Any clues that you could give us, no matter how small, would be great."

"_What do you mean you thought I'd be calling back for more information?"_

"That poor boy's dealing with so much." Clarence's voice was filled with sympathy. "He's a great kid. I want to help, but I really don't know what I can tell you. He never mentioned anything about leaving. We just talked a little about movies. The good stuff...John Wayne, Bob Hope...not the stuff they make today."

"_Why would I be calling __**back**__, Jefferson, when you haven't even called __**me**__ until now?"_

"And I gave him something off my cart to read. Thought it might distract him from his pain," the elderly man explained, his concern for his young friend growing by the minute.

"What did you give him?," Bobby queried.

"Um, now let me think." Clarence stroked at his chin thoughtfully as he tried to recall just what it was that Sam had been given.

"_No, Sam didn't give me any message...Message about what?"_

"That's right," Clarence remembered, his finger poking at the air in a 'Eureka'-type gesture. "He got this month's issue of 'Guns & Ammo'. Figured a strapping young boy like Sam would enjoy that. I recommended the article on the M1 Garand. Helluva gun, it was."

The old man had been cooperative and friendly but it seemed to Bobby that he sure didn't have anything that would help him and Dean in the search for Sam. Bobby was really starting to doubt they'd have any success finding him until Sam _wanted_ to be found. Sam had grown up a hunter and, despite his reluctance to embrace the lifestyle and his battles for normalcy, it was obvious Sam had learned, and learned well, just how to cover his trail.

"Oh, yeah," the elderly Marine exclaimed, suddenly remembering more. "I gave him another issue of 'Guns & Ammo', too. No charge, 'cause it was an old one. Shouldn't have even charged for it when it was brand new," he asserted. "Silly articles about 'supernatural guns' aren't worth wasting good money on."

The mention of 'Guns & Ammo' had distracted Dean from his phone call. A mounting sense of apprehension was germinating in Dean's gut the more that Clarence spoke but he'd missed the mention of 'supernatural guns' when Jefferson hollered in his ear, trying his best to regain Dean's attention.

"_Huh?...Yeah, I'm still here...Who's dead?...Norman Bennett?...Who the hell...Oh, my God, Jefferson...please tell me you didn't tell Sam...Son of a bitch!"_

Dean slammed the phone shut without even saying 'goodbye' and ran a rough hand over his mouth to try to contain his anger and his anxiety. It didn't work. "Wyoming, Bobby! It's gotta be! Can you believe it? He's chasing after that God damned journal! We've got to go after him!"

Clarence had gone pale. "_Samuel Colt's_ journal? That thing is _real_? I didn't mean to cause a problem. I...I didn't know. God, I hope he's alright. I thought the article was funny. Figured the journal was a hoax, you know?"

"I'm sure it is, Clarence," Bobby lied, placing a soothing hand on the guilt-stricken man's shoulder. "It's not your fault. There's no way you could have known Sam was gonna take off. You couldn't have talked him out of it even if you _had_ known. He sets his mind to something, there isn't anyone or anything that'll stand in his way. Sam's as headstrong as they come."

"I can't stand around here anymore," Dean growled impatiently. "I've got to go after him, Bobby." Dean shoved past the two older men and dashed through the door on his way towards the elevator.

He poked his finger viciously into the elevator's call button and when the doors didn't slide open instantly, he crashed through a nearby exit door and started bounding down the stairwell as quickly as the splint on his ankle would allow.

Mere seconds after the door had swung shut behind him, Dean heard it crash open again and the sounds of heavy boots clattered down the steps behind him.

"Dean! Dean, wait!"

Dean had made it to the landing of the third flight of stairs before Bobby was finally able to catch up with him. When he showed no signs of slowing, Bobby barreled his full weight into Dean, roughly pinning the boy to the wall behind him and earning himself an angry glare from the younger hunter.

"Now you just hold on a damned minute there, boy," Bobby spat right in Dean's face. "I want to find Sam as much as you do! Lord knows, the boy's in no shape to be out of bed never mind traipsing around the country on his own. But we don't even know _where_ in Wyoming he's headed!"

"I don't care! I'm sure he's headed to Wyoming...and so am I," Dean added as he pulled his arms up between himself and Bobby and shoved them out fiercely to break the older man's hold on him.

"If you have any hope of finding that brother of yours than you'd better get your head out of your ass and start using your noggin for something more than a hat rack!" Bobby jabbed a stubby finger into Dean's chest in the area over his heart. "You're thinkin' with your heart instead of your head, Dean!"

"What the hell's _that_ supposed to mean?!" Bobby was really starting to piss Dean off that he was questioning his tracking and investigative abilities.

"You're worried about Sam, and I get that. I am, too. But you're letting it cloud your judgment," the scruffy hunter explained, his large hand resting softly now on Dean's chest as though the contact would calm them both. "The Impala was still here, we had my truck and we haven't heard any rumbles about any cars being stolen from the hospital parking lot. That means Sam couldn't have a vehicle."

A look of understanding dawned on Dean's face. "So, if Sam left for Wyoming, he would have had to have taken public transportation."

"_Now_ you're thinkin' like a hunter," Bobby asserted. "We need to start methodically checking out all of the nearby airports and train and bus stations to see if we can get a tail on exactly where in Wyoming the idget's headed."

**-:-:-:-:-:-:-**

**Early evening**

**Somewhere near the Nevada/Utah border**

A good part of Sam's journey had been spent using the power of his own two legs but he had managed to hitch a few rides along the way. Most of them had been nothing more than hops of only ten or twenty miles, but he'd been grateful for them just the same. Not only could he make better time catching a ride, but any chance to get off his feet and conserve his energy while continuing to move towards his destination could only be seen as a benefit.

The kind people that had given him his other rides had seemed content to allow him to sink deeply into the passenger's seat and lose himself in the quiet peacefulness of the landscape as it whisked quickly past. At times, he'd even been able to briefly block out the raging torment that plagued his right arm and slip into the silent comfort of slumber. Not so with his latest ride.

Mrs. Edith Defoe was a talker. It really didn't seem to matter to her what she talked about, she just liked to talk. Words tumbled from her lips with hardly a breath between sentences. They came so fast that Sam was having problems getting his weary mind wrapped around the sudden and illogical switches in subject.

When Edith had pulled up beside him and offered Sam a ride, he'd been walking in the desert heat for some time. What little water he'd been able to carry with him had long since been consumed and he thought he was probably a little dehydrated. He was drained physically and the cool luxury of the air conditioned vehicle seemed to be an oasis of comfort. After just a short time, Sam realized just how deceiving looks can be.

As the miles wore on and Mrs. Defoe jabbered non-stop, Sam found himself smiling weakly and trying to nod attentively at her long-winded and ultimately uninteresting stories about her children and grandchildren, her achievements with the Tuesday morning Senior Citizens bowling league, the Red Hat Society tea that she had attended just this past Saturday and, of course, the allegedly humorous exploits of her overly pampered Maltese, Giselle.

"...and she's got this cute little red and yellow ball. It's got a jingle bell in it, you know, and Giselle's just so incredibly adorable the way she cocks her head at the sound it makes. And I've just never seen anything funnier than the way she goes skittering and sliding around the kitchen as she chases..."

_All I want is a chance to close my eyes and rest. Why can't she just drive like the others? Doesn't she know that she's driving me insane?_

"...and I got her just the sweetest outfit you've ever seen. It's a bubblegum-pink dress with white polka-dots and a flouncy little peplum. Oh, and there's the prettiest lace around the collar. It's just so dainty and delicate. She wore that dress when she and her boyfriend, Fauntleroy, my friend Janice's Maltese, went on their very first date. I'd show you the pictures but, darn it, I just don't have them with me..."

_Dear God, if I __**ever**__ complain about Dean's rock music again..._

"Giselle and Fauntleroy have decided to get married. The wedding's going to be next month. Oh, wouldn't it be grand if you could attend, too? All of our friends are coming and we're..."

_What would be grand is if you would just zip it for a while...a month would be nice._

"You'll have to give me your address so that I can be sure to send you an invitation. It's going to be so much fun and you'll..."

_What would be fun would be to plaster a huge strip of duct tape over your mouth._

"_..._get the chance to meet my children and all of the grandchildren..."

_Better yet, I wish I could simply press a 'mute' button on a remote control and silence your inane ramblings._

"The ladies from my Red Hat Society group will be invited, too. You're just so cute and sweet and polite. I know they'd just flip over you if you'd stand up as Fauntleroy's best man..."

_Sweet? Polite? Oh my God! How could I even think those horrible things?_

As Edith droned on, a flush of shame colored Sam's cheeks. Guilt washed over him as he considered how despicable his thoughts had been.

_What am I doing? I'm tired and my arm hurts like mad, but that's no excuse for such appalling behavior. If it hadn't been for Edith I'd still be a hundred miles back and walking through the desert._

A loud pop and the way the car lurched suddenly to the right ripped Sam from his thoughts. He braced his left arm against the dashboard as the car careened wildly left and right on the soft shoulder of the roadway. Sam gasped involuntarily as the seatbelt clamped down and a juggernaut of pain flashed over his right shoulder and cascaded down the arm.

Moments later, the car skidded to a halt in a cloud of red dust. Edith sat huffing noisily as she clutched at the steering wheel so tightly that she was surprised it hadn't crumbled into tiny pieces within her grip. A soft groan slipped from Sam's lips before it turned into a wry chuckle as he released the seatbelt and angrily shoved it aside.

_The arm. Why is it always the arm that ends up taking one for the team?_

"Mrs. Defoe? Mrs. Defoe, are you OK?" Sam turned slightly in his seat to get a better look at the older woman and hissed lightly at the pull it caused on his throbbing right shoulder.

"I'm...I'm fine. But your arm...are _you _OK? I just...I don't understand what happened."

Sam pushed the passenger's door open with his left hand and prepared to swing his legs out. "I've got to check to be sure, but I'd put money on it that you blew a tire. You have a spare, don't you?"

_Please tell me you've got a spare. I just want to change it, get to a motel and crash. Maybe then, if I try hard enough, I can forget what an obnoxious and dreadful jerk I've been._

"Oh my, yes. Edmund, my late husband, always insisted that I keep a spare in the trunk; a _real_ spare tire, not one of those 'donut' tires," she announced proudly.

Sam slowly climbed from the car to find the right front tire flat and tattered around its rim. He stabbed at the offensive item with the toe of his boot and grumbled under his breath. Not only was the chore of changing the tire going to waste precious time, it was going to waste precious energy. Changing a tire was difficult enough with two good arms, doing it with just one was going to be quite the trick.

"I'll need you to pop the trunk," Sam declared as he leaned down to speak to Edith Defoe. "It looks like we're going to need that spare."

"Oh, fudge," the widow bit out vehemently, a slightly disappointed whine edging into her voice. "I don't want to miss my granddaughter's recital waiting for a tow truck."

"We're not going to wait, Mrs. Defoe," Sam stated flatly. "_**I'm**_going to change the tire and get us back on the road." _'Cause I'm not going to let something as stupid as a blown tire keep me from getting that journal._

"I can't possibly ask you..." Edith began, as she gestured at Sam's sling-clad right arm.

"You didn't ask."

"Yes, but I can't let you..."

"I'm a grown man, Mrs. Defoe. It'll be fine."

**-:-:-:-:-:-:-**

Sweat dripped into Sam's eyes as he lowered the jack and the fingers of his left hand twisted the last of the lug nuts into place. He paused briefly, bowing his head and wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his arm. The exertion of loosening and then re-tightening the nuts had put a tremendous strain on Sam's body and its dwindling energy reserves. By the time he'd finished tightening just the first two, his right arm and shoulder were begging for mercy, he was sweating profusely and he was forced to take another rest; his third one since starting the tire change.

By the time he'd made it to the this last one, he was in agony and was mentally wishing someone would just come along and put him out of his misery. For her part, Mrs. Defoe had at least finally stopped prattling incessantly. Instead, she stood closely by and watched Sam with an eye of concern, frequently apologizing over the fact that she was of little help to him and urging him to rest.

Sam reached for the tire iron again and, lifting it from its place in the red dirt, marveled that it seemed to weigh even more than it had ten minutes before. Sam took a deep breath and shuffled his crouched form closer to his work in order to get better torque on the tire iron. As he applied pressure to the iron, it slipped unexpectedly from the lug nut. The sudden change in position threw off Sam's balance and he pitched heavily into the car, jamming his left fist into the tire's rim and catching his forearm against the tire's bolts.

"Shit!" Sam shook out his stinging left hand as he shimmied himself around so that his back leaned against the car. He sat there with his eyes closed and his head thrown back against the car's front quarter panel, breathing heavily from the exertion of repairing the flat. The job really _had _taken more than he had to give and he felt completely drained. How he was ever going to find the energy to get himself back up and into the car, God only knew.

"Oh, sweetie," Edith gasped. You're bleeding!" Tiny beads of blood welled up all along a deep abrasion that crossed Sam's left forearm. "Oh goodness, you poor dear. Just stay there," the older women commanded in a very serious and concerned tone. "Don't move. I keep a kit for emergencies, _just like this_."

Edith bustled rapidly around the front of the car and out of sight, leaving Sam to wonder just what he'd done to himself that Mrs. Defoe was so upset about. Sam opened his eyes and tiredly raised his head from its position against the fender of the car. He peered down at the abrasion on his forearm and had to choke back a huge laugh. _Emergency? Oh, lady, I __**wish**__ this was the worst injury Dean and I have had to deal with._

Mrs. Defoe skittered quickly back to Sam's side and immediately set to work cleaning and caring for the wound with all the seriousness of brain surgery. Sam found it hard to restrain himself from giggling uncontrollably at the nearly ridiculous way the woman went on and on about how awful the severity of his injury was as she tended the area and applied an extra-large Band-aid.

Sam sighed heavily, knowing that he still had to take care of his tools before he could slip his exhausted body back into the comfort of the passenger's seat. Reaching to his left, he snatched up the hubcap from where it lay in the roadside dirt and prepared to push himself back around and get back to business.

"Now don't you even _think_ of trying to put that silly, old hubcap back on after getting hurt like that. It'll be just fine riding along with the jack and the tire iron in the trunk for now." Edith had one hand tucked sternly on her hip, the other held out towards Sam, beckoning with a wiggle of her fingers for him to hand the hubcap over.

Sam suppressed an amused smile, instead trying to match Edith's serious tone with an equally serious "Yes, ma'am" as he placed the hubcap in her grip. "And don't you mind that tire iron and jack, either. You sit and rest while I tidy up." Mrs. Defoe bent and scooped up the tire iron and retreated towards the car's open trunk before returning seconds later and repeating the action with the jack stand.

Hearing the heavy 'thunk' of the jack as Mrs. Defoe plopped it unceremoniously into the trunk, Sam began shifting around so that he could use his left arm to help lever himself from his position on the ground. Rallying his flagging stamina, Sam pushed himself up and marveled at the way the muscles in his legs shook and burned.

The trunk slammed closed and Mrs. Defoe appeared at Sam's side, pulling his door open and grasping at the waistband of his jeans to stabilize his wobbling and much taller frame. He slowly made his way on unsteady legs to the shotgun position of the newly fixed car and sunk listlessly onto the seat.

**-:-:-:-:-:-:-**

**Rest E-Z Inn, Western Utah**

**10:37 PM**

For all of her annoying, non-stop chatter Edith was, at her core, one of the kindest and most genuine people Sam had ever met. At another time, Sam knew he would have found the story-filled elderly woman charming and her personality to be delightfully spunky. But his right arm ached like a mother and he had felt so rundown and completely spent that everything had culminated in a cascade of horrible and tactless thoughts.

Sam had felt guilty for those sentiments all along, but the guilt only bit more deeply into him as Mrs. Defoe guided the car to a stop in front of the Rest E-Z Inn. She'd insisted on driving more than ten miles out of her way to deliver Sam directly to his destination. The motel, like the others he'd grown accustomed to inhabiting since childhood, was as crappy as the come, but still a welcome sight, indeed. The way he'd been feeling, he would have been happy just to crash on some park bench somewhere and the thought of a real bed, no matter how lumpy it might be, sounded like pure luxury.

Sam pushed the car door open and gingerly climbed out. Turning around, he placed a hand on the car's roof to steady himself as he leaned down to speak to Edith through the open passenger's door. "Mrs. Defoe, I can't possibly thank you enough for the ride."

"Pish, posh, my dear. It is I that should be thanking _you_. Here," she stated as she held out what appeared to be a slip of paper. "I want you to take this...and don't you dare argue."

Sam's hand shook as he took the paper from the older woman and unfolded it, revealing a fifty dollar bill. "Mrs. Defoe," Sam sighed. "I can't accept this."

"Huh...such behavior from a nice boy like you."

Sam's brow wrinkled in tired confusion. "Excuse me?"

"I was certain you'd been raised to obey your elders." A mischievous smile crept onto Edith Defoe's face. "I know my memory isn't what it used to be, but I'm pretty sure I asked you to take that and not argue."

Sam's eyes closed briefly in defeat and a dimpled grin spread across his tired features as he slowly shook his head in exasperation. He felt guilty accepting the gift but didn't have the energy to find a way around her argument. "Yes, ma'am, you did. Thank you."

"I know you don't want to take the money, but if you hadn't been with me when that tire blew...**. **Well, I'd be an old lady still stuck out in the desert, all alone at night, with a flat I couldn't fix by myself. Who knows what might have happened."

"I'm sorry I couldn't get it fixed fast enough to get you to your granddaughter's recital," Sam proclaimed sheepishly, his eyes casting down at his feet in regret. "I'm sure the both of you are disappointed."

"Don't you think another thing about it. I'll get my own _private_ recital when I get there and that will be so much more special, now won't it? And," Edith added with an impish wink, "it'll give me an extra good excuse to hang around a few more days and spoil the dickens out of the grandchildren."

Edith leaned even further across the front seats and peered more closely up at the young man in front of her. Underneath the layer of dust and grim he'd acquired while changing the tire, the boy was obviously pale and beyond exhausted. He hadn't looked all that healthy when she'd first spied him walking along the side of that long, lonely road, but he just plain looked on the verge of collapse now.

"Now, please, make an old woman happy. Take the money, get yourself a room," she encouraged, gesturing at the motel, "and get some much deserved rest."

**-:-:-:-:-:-:-**

Sam sagged wearily onto the musty smelling bed. He was so drained, he hadn't even bothered to turn the light on when he'd entered the room. Instead, he'd relied on what little light filtered in from the parking lot and his own heightened hunter's senses to know that no threats awaited him before kicking the door shut with the heel of his boot. Seconds later, he'd snapped the lock shut, lined the door and windowsills with a protective layer of salt and collapsed onto the bed.

As he lay there trying to get his aching muscles to loosen, he thought back over the events of his day. He groaned loudly when his mind skipped back to the dressing change he'd put off that morning. It really was imperative that he saw to the care of his right arm, but by the time Sam had stood, exhausted and dusty, in the lobby of the tiny motel he was silently praying that he could keep himself upright long enough just to complete the registration process. Drumming up the energy and coordination to complete a complex dressing change like the one he faced was asking for entirely too much.

_Fifteen minutes. I'll rest here for fifteen minutes and then get up and do the dressing change. It's waited this long, it can wait another fifteen minutes. If I rest a little...I'll be able...to do...a...better job...of...taking...care..._

Sam's eyes drifted shut and the soft sounds of his even breathing filled the darkened room.

**-:-:-:-:-:-:-**

**Bus station 12 miles outside Scorched Pines, California**

**11:56 PM**

"Dammit, Bobby, it's nearly midnight and it's been more than twenty-four hours since Sam disappeared. This is taking too long. We're no closer to finding him now than we were this morning when we talked with Clarence." Dean's arms flailed wildly in exasperation as he pounded his way up the walkway to the last bus station on their list. "God only knows what's happened to him in that amount of time."

"Don't you think I know that?," Bobby questioned angrily, the stress of worry slicing an acidic tone into his words. "Checking _every_ airline, _every _rail company and _every _bus line in one airport, three trains stations and three bus stations _takes_ time, Dean."

"I'd just like to know where the little shit learned to cover his tracks so well," Dean groused as they spun their way through the turnstile door.

Coming out in the station lobby, Bobby threw an amused grin at Dean. "From you, Dean. You spent the whole summer when Sam was twelve teaching him about escape and evade tactics."

Dean shot Bobby a disgruntled glance and grunted. "Yeah. Well, who knew the twerp was actually paying attention."

"Let's start over there," Bobby suggested as he pointed to the Greyhound Bus Lines counter that stood immediately to their left. As he started in that direction, Dean reached out and stopped him.

"You said I needed to stop thinking like a brother and start thinking like a hunter, right? Well," Dean continued, not giving the older hunter a chance to answer what had really been a rhetorical question. "If I wanted to get away and cover my tracks, I wouldn't be taking one of the big names like Greyhound or Trailways. I'd be booking _my_ ticket on something more like that."

Bobby turned to see the obviously hand painted sign of a small, privately owned bus line. A cartoon mascot of a camel driving a bus adorned a portion of the sign. "Ship of the Desert Bus Lines?" An air of incredulity permeated Bobby's question.

"Ok, so the camel's kind of cheesy," Dean acknowledged. "But you have to admit that it wouldn't normally be an investigator's first pick of places to look."

"Unless you're thinkin' like a hunter," Bobby proclaimed proudly as he gave Dean a congratulatory slap on the back. "Nice work, kid."

Dean strolled nonchalantly up to the Ship of the Desert Bus Lines counter with Bobby close on his heels. Dean figured it must have been a slow night because the clerk and what appeared to be a uniformed driver had their feet kicked up on a small desk at the rear of the cubicle and were watching a nearly microscopic black and white TV. Dean couldn't see what program they were watching but he could clearly hear each man's comments about the merits of the voluptuous, bathing suit-clad women on the screen and realized it was 'Baywatch'.

Dean stood patiently for a minute or so, studying the multitude of patriotic banners that adorned the walls, before loudly declaring, "Huh, 'Baywatch'. Gives new meaning to the term 'boob tube', doesn't it?".

The clerk jumped up quickly, obviously flustered that he'd been caught screwing off as well as making remarks that were daringly close to being considered indecent. The driver, for his part, stayed put but had the decency to pull his feet down off the desk and flush with awkward embarrassment.

"Something I can do for you guys?" The clerk was trying his best to appear unruffled by being caught in a less than professional demeanor.

"We were wondering if you'd seen this guy." Dean produced a small photo of his brother for the clerk to look at. "His right arm is heavily bandaged and he should be wearing a sling."

"Look real close. It's incredibly important that we find him," Bobby added for good measure.

The clerk took the photo from Dean and glanced at it briefly. "Yeah. I remember him. Kinda hard to forget a guy like him. Marine. Wounded in Iraq. Vincent, um... Furnier. His name's Vincent Furnier."

Dean and Bobby exchanged wordless glances. The guy had ID'd the photo, but the story didn't match up. Sam looked and acted about as far from being a Marine as you could get. And the name, Vincent Furnier. It was all wrong. Still, it fit their MO. Use a pop-culture reference as an alias and spin a line to conceal your movements and make yourself harder to track. Dean decided to go with it.

"Yeah, that's him. Marine Furnier." Dean was practically jumping with excitement at the prospect of having their first solid lead in more than a day.

The clerk looked back at the picture in his hand and then up at Bobby and Dean. There was something vaguely dangerous about the two men standing in front of him and they seemed awfully intent on finding the young man. Suddenly, the clerk became concerned for the boy's safety and eyed the hunters with suspicion. "Why do you want to know about him? Seemed like a nice kid...pretty scruffy for a Marine, but a nice kid. Anyway, the guy's had it tough enough already. He doesn't need anyone hassling him."

"We're not trying to hassle him," Dean assured. "We're trying to protect him. How long ago was he here?"

The clerk looked at Dean uncertainly. He didn't want to give the information if the men had less than honorable intentions. But if the boy truly _was_ in danger, well, that was different.

"Please," Dean begged, his hazel eyes burning with their best imitation of Sam's puppy-dog eyes. "I just want to make sure he's safe."

"Welllll...Ok. Um, he was here yesterday around, ah...hold on. Lemme check the ambulance logs."

"Ambulance log?" The hairs on the back of Dean's neck stood at attention. "You called an ambulance?" _OhGodOhGodOhGod._

"We make a log of any 911 calls that are made...for legal purposes," the clerk added for clarity. "Some jerk got his luggage stuck in the revolving door and slammed Vince a good one when the door jammed. Caught him square on his injured arm. He tried hard not to, but he ended up passing out right on the floor over there."

Dean and Bobby both turned and looked to where the clerk was indicating. "So, the ambulance took him to the hospital?," Dean blurted out. "Which one?"

"They never got the chance," the clerk admitted. "When he came to, Vince was real jumpy anyway, but he practically blew a gasket when he found out we'd called an ambulance. That was nothin', though, compared to how panicky he got when they got close enough for us to hear their sirens. I once saw a caged tiger at the circus that had that same look. You know, that trapped, desperate look. Never saw that look on a guy, though."

"Look, um..."

"Mick," the clerk supplied.

"Look, Mick," Bobby began. "We really need you to tell us where Sa...uh, Vince went."

"I...I'm not sure I should do that. The kid was obviously running from something...or someone. How can I be sure it wasn't the two of you? How do I know once you catch up with him that you're not gonna hurt him?"

Dean could feel the desperation boiling up within him. He _had_ to come up with a believable cover story that would convince Mick to give them the information they needed. _If the posters have anything to say about it, this guy's a flag-waver...a real red, white and blue-blood. Patriotic to his very core. He's already convinced himself that Sammy's a wounded Marine. If I'm going to get what I need I'm going to have to appeal to Mick's sense of patriotism. It's low, even by my standards, but desperate times call for desperate measures._

"You've obviously seen Vince's wounds," Dean began very seriously. "But they're only the ones on the surface, the ones you can see with your eyes. The physical recovery has been rough enough, but the psychological wounds are worse. He's been running for a long time now but he's not running from us, he's running from what happened, from his memories, his fears."

"We're not here to hurt him," Bobby cut in with his most assuring tone. "We're only looking to help him. I'm the boy's uncle...'bout the only family he's got left."

Dean could tell their sob story almost had the clerk hooked so he kept shoveling it on. "In Iraq, Vince's unit manned a checkpoint in one of the busiest and most dangerous areas of the country. When an ambulance rushed up to his unit's checkpoint with lights flashing and sirens blaring everything seemed to check out and they waved it on through. As the ambulance moved through the checkpoint, a suicide bomber detonated an explosive. Vince was the only survivor...but he was bad...real bad...and we weren't even sure he'd make it to the hospital."

Mick's eyes grew wide as he thought about the bandaged arm, the sling, the deep bruises he'd seen on Sam's chest, ribs and left arm and the strange way he'd behaved when he knew an ambulance was coming.

"He's been dealing with a lot of baggage. The doctors have called it Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder but it all just boils down to a shitload of survivor's guilt, a history of terrible nightmares, headaches and constant, unrelenting worries and fear."

"That's why he's freaked out by ambulances, isn't it?," Mick asked quietly, his heart aching for the young man. "And the hair...he grew it out because he's trying _not_ to look like a Marine, trying not to look like a target. He's afraid if he still looks like a Marine, he'll be attacked again."

The driver had worked his way over as Dean had spun his tale. He picked the photo up from where it lay on the counter. "So _that's_ what all that was about," the driver said in a tone that declared he'd found the final piece to an unimaginably strange mystery. "I'm sure I had this kid on my run last night. He looked like hell and fell asleep before we were even five miles down the road. Woke up swinging and screaming some guy's name." He paused as he searched his memory. "Dean, I think it was."

"That's me! I'm Dean," the hunter declared. "After he was injured, I dragged him to safety. I stayed with him the whole way to the hospital, just talking to him about nothing...trying to keep him awake, keep him fighting. I've been with him throughout his recovery. Please, you got to help me find him. We're like brothers."

"The kid ended up having one of the worst asthma attacks I've ever seen," the driver continued. "He was really weird about being touched and I had to talk him down just so I could loosen his shirt collar so he could breathe better. And when I did, he had these horrendous bruises and a gauze bandage on his neck."

Dean shook his head vigorously. "He stopped breathing just as we got to the hospital," he explained.

"His throat was swollen so badly that they couldn't get a breathing tube down and they had to do the trach to get his airway open. Even then, he wouldn't breathe on his own, and they ended up putting him on a ventilator."

"Yeah, he said he'd had a trach. His breathing had me real worried. But when I went to call for a medic, he went crazy and begged me not to call for an ambulance. At the time, I didn't understand why. Now I get it."

"Did he go to a hospital?," Bobby questioned hopefully. At least if Sam had been admitted to another hospital they knew he was safe and being cared for.

"Nah. I wanted him to, but he wouldn't. So I gave him a chance to get some fresh air and he used an inhaler he had with him and things seemed to settle down. He was doing ok when he got off at the Cherry Creek station."

"So, that's where he is?," Dean asked quickly. "He's in Cherry Creek? Please, I just want to make sure he's ok, make sure he doesn't hurt himself. He signed out of the hospital against medical advice. He still needs medical care for his arm and his breathing, not to mention that his PTSD makes his behavior so unpredictable."

"His ticket got him to Cherry Creek, Nevada," Mick broke in. After what the boy had been through, he couldn't just stand by and let him get hurt or, worse yet, hurt himself. "But he told me he was actually headed to Rosary."

Dean leaned over the counter and grasped Mick's face in his burly hands. "I could kiss you! But that would just be awkward and gross, wouldn't it?," Dean burbled out with an excited laugh. "Thank you _so_ much," Dean bellowed as he and Bobby started inching away from the desk. As they kept moving, Dean pointed back at the shocked clerk. "You're a true patriot, Mick! The Marine Corps owes you a debt of gratitude!"

"Semper Fi," Mick yelled back as Dean practically skipped out the station's entrance. "I hope he's ok when you find him!"

* * *

**To be continued...**

* * *

A/N: The chapter title is a track from Journey's 1983 album, Frontiers. I thought it was a good choice since Sam has gone his separate way from Dean and Bobby.

Also, the town of Cherry Creek, Nevada really does exist. To the best of my knowledge, there is no such place as Rosary, Nevada.


	5. Vagabond of the Western World

**Disclaimer: **I wish they were mine, but they're not. I don't make any money from them so I just have to content myself with borrowing them, toying with them a bit and then giving them back.

**A/N: **The towns listed in this chapter are, to the best of my knowledge, all fictitious. Although, the Idaho location is the name of an actual Idaho geologic formation popular with climbers.

* * *

**Atrox**

**Chapter 4: Vagabond of the Western World  
****4 days later (Tuesday, April 18****th****)  
****Sagebrush Motel, Central Nevada  
****4:27 PM**

"Uh huh, he was here. Room three. Checked out 'round eight this mornin'. " A spray of coffeecake crumbs fell from the desk clerk's overly bushy mustache as he spoke. He swallowed hard to shove down the monstrous bite he'd been chewing and used his left hand to tilt his cup so that he could chase the cake with a slurping gulp of black coffee. He stabbed his sticky right index finger down and bounced it up and down a few times on the photo of Sam that Dean had laid on the motel counter for the clerk to see. "But he didn't look anything like _that_."

"Whadda you mean?" Bobby was looking at the man with narrowed eyes. "You just said this guy had been here."

"Hey, I ain't here to judge no one. You know? How they want to live their lives or ruin 'em is up to them. It's just...well, I've been doing this job long enough that I've seen a lot of stuff, heard a lot of things, dealt with a lot of different kinda folks. It's got that I can size people up real quick-like and this guy was here." The clerk bounced his sticky finger on Sam's picture again. "Only, he wasn't _this_ guy...the clean-cut, All-American, boy-next-door type. I've seen enough of 'em in my time to recognize someone who's strung-out and I got to say, by the looks of him, he was _definitely_ strung-out. Probably one of the worst I've seen in a long time."

"What makes you say that he was strung-out?" Dean glanced nervously at Bobby. _Sammy, what the hell have you gotten yourself into?_

"One look at him and you could tell. I mean, come on. He was pale and sweaty and his clothes were a mess. Plus, they kind of hung off of him like there wasn't enough of him inside anymore to hold 'em up and his hair was kind of greasy looking. Looked like he hadn't bathed in days and he seemed to have a hard time concentrating when he was counting out his money. Tried three times 'fore he got it right."

Dean could feel his stomach drop to the floor and he swallowed the huge lump that had suddenly appeared in his throat. "Anything else that you noticed?"

"He had a big scrape across his left forearm and the knuckles of his left hand were bloody. The hand shook real bad when he handed over the room rent, too. I figure he must have gotten into a scuffle with a dealer when they shortchanged him on a buy 'cause he was pretty cut up and had a real impressive shiner to go along with it. Eye was swollen so much I doubt he was seein' much outta it."

"He didn't happen to mention where he was heading when he checked out, did he?" Bobby knew it was a long shot that Sam would have revealed that information. Then again, if the boy was having trouble keeping his wits about him, maybe he'd slipped up and given an indication of his next stop.

"Nah. He didn't say much. Acted like he was in a hurry to get outta here...but he did seem like he was functioning a bit better than he was last night," the clerk added as an afterthought. "I guess maybe he'd been able to buy a big enough hit after all, that it got him over the rough spot. Sorry I can't give you anything more to go on."

"You've already been a big help. Thanks," Bobby proclaimed as he watched Dean slam his way through the office doorway and head for the Impala.

Bobby followed him out and joined Dean as he stood leaning his back against the jet black car, his arms folded across his chest and his feet crossed at the ankles. He looked out over the horizon, his gaze hard and cold, the clenching of his jaw muscles being the only clue to the turmoil of emotions brewing just below the surface.

"We'll find him, Dean. I promise."

**-:-:-:-:-:-:-**

**The day before  
****Somewhere in Central Nevada**

Sam clenched the bottle of water between his knees as the ancient pickup rattled and bounced its way down the rutted and sun-baked road. Or, at least, that's what they called it. What it actually was, was nothing more than some dirt track that had been cut into the landscape of the desert by the vehicles of the few people that were skilled and prepared enough to call such an unforgiving environment their home.

It was true that it was still early Spring, but in the desert, Mother Nature didn't seem to care. She had a will all her own and imposed it mercilessly on every living thing that dared to be presumptuous enough to try to scratch out an existence in the endless barrenness. The days were already oppressively hot as the sun shimmered off the rust-red sand and baked the rocks to unbearable temperatures. But it was during the nights that Mother Nature truly mocked Sam. That was when she dragged the temperatures from one extreme to the next; from the heat of the scorched daylight to the cold of the bone-chilling darkness.

Sam had been able to thumb a few short rides along the way but he'd been walking in the rising heat for quite some time, long enough to have lost track of just how _much_ time. That was when the sounds of roughly ground gears and a straining engine reached his ears and he turned to see the expanding cloud of billowing dust fanning out behind an approaching pickup.

The '57 Ford F-100 had been horribly abused by the ravages of many hard years in the harsh conditions of the desert, but to an exhausted and pain-riddled Sam, the truck had appeared as an oasis in the desert, as luxurious as any fully-loaded limo. At that point, riding in a disintegrating old truck that was well beyond its prime and almost certainly without any shock absorbers was far preferable to the torture of having to push his leaden legs to continue walking.

Lewis Red Crow had turned out to be a cordial but, thankfully, quiet man that had, for the most part, contented himself with appreciating the stark beauty of his ancestor's homelands that bumped past during the long drive. The richly colored, red tones of his skin gave the illusion that the man had been formed from the sands of the wild and arid earth that bore the story of his heritage. His weathered skin told of his many years enduring the desert sun and his high, prominent cheekbones rushed up to meet the deep, craggy lines at the corners of his eyes. His silvery hair had been parted, arrow straight, down the middle and skillfully twisted into long plaits that were secured at the end with bits of leather.

Lewis had quietly introduced himself, Sam reciprocating with the name of Vincent Furnier, his assumed alias. His eyes had scanned the young hunter and, although he said nothing, a small shiver passed through Sam that the man had somehow known more about him and his quest than that brief assessment of him should have ever told him. As Sam slowly and painfully climbed into the truck and settled himself, Lewis had dug two bottles of cold water from an equally dilapidated looking cooler that had been stowed in the cluttered bed of the old pickup. Settling back into the driver's seat, Lewis twisted the cap off one bottle and handed it to Sam.

The cool, silken feel of the water Lewis had given him as it had poured down his parched throat had been welcome. The ride? It had been a God-send, but had also proven to aggravate Sam's already vocal right arm. More than once, he'd been nearly catapulted from his seat as the truck thundered over the choppy and uneven dirt roadway, his shoulder crashing against the passenger's door and sending spikes of agony shuddering the length of the arm.

The truck finally rolled into a tiny village of ramshackle homes. Sam straightened in his seat and pulled his duffel closer as Lewis guided the truck into the parking lot of 'Skelly's', a scruffy looking bar and poolroom that could have been a model of the stereotypical redneck watering hole. In fact, the place was so rough looking it made Harvelle's Roadhouse look like an upscale Manhattan club.

It had been a long and tiring journey to this, his next destination, and his entire body ached from the jarring he'd received along the way. Still, he knew he couldn't thank Lewis enough for the kindness that he had shown him. "I guess this is where I get off." Sam stared out at the decaying honky-tonk before him. "I wish I could tell you just how much I appreciate your kindness," Sam stated with great sincerity as he gingerly crawled from the cab of the truck.

The graying Native American spoke without turning towards Sam, instead staring straight ahead through the grime-laden windshield. "You can find no words, because none exist. Words are felt in the head and are spoken by the tongue. Kindness is felt in the heart and the heart has no tongue."

Dimples formed deep crevasses at the corners of Sam's mouth as he smiled at the man's wise words. "I don't think I could have made it here without you, though."

Lewis eyed the bar and imagined the trouble his young passenger could find there. By the look of him, the boy had already found far too much of it. "Life in the desert is hard, but the people are harder. You must be careful."

Sam followed the man's gaze out through the windshield. "I'll be ok, Lewis. You don't need to worry about me. I can handle myself in a bar."

The silver-haired native turned to face Sam suddenly, his eyes serious and intent and his voice filled with an air of disquieting significance. "Grandfather, the Great Spirit, has shown me that you are a good man. Good and evil cannot exist in one heart, so a good man ought not to go into evil company." Lewis's eyes shifted again to the run-down bar, lines of worry wrinkling his forehead.

Sam's brow bunched in questioning uncertainty as he watched the Native American stare apprehensively at the beer joint. His arm ached brutally and occasional barbs of white-hot spasms rippled through the tortured muscles as he considered the things that Lewis had said.

A few silent moments passed before Sam spoke again. "Believe me, Lewis, all I really want to do is find a bed and sleep for a week. But, I've got something I've got to do first. I'll be out of there as quickly as I possibly can. I promise. It'll be ok."

More than anything, Sam coveted sleep but he knew he wouldn't be getting any right away. He had just enough money to get himself into a hustle at Skelly's, but not enough to rent a room for the night. If he wanted a comfortable place to crash, he would need to score first.

Lewis nodded as though he understood more than Sam had let on. "Then I will ask that Grandfather walk with you on your journey."

"I appreciate that. I'll take all the help I can get." Sam hesitated, tapping a few times at the sill of the open passenger's window with the flat of his left hand. Although they hadn't talked all that much Sam had formed a fondness for the easy-going Native American and was certain he'd miss his company. He'd grown accustomed to traveling with Dean and Sam had found it rather lonesome without him. "Thanks again for the ride, Lewis."

With one more tap on the doorframe, Sam shouldered his duffel and walked away as the distant rumble of thunder rolled in from off of the desert. Heading towards the bar, he heard the ancient truck crunch across the gravel as it pulled away and felt the pall of loneliness once again overspreading him. As though it meant to add to his misery, another ripple of pain shot up Sam's arm. He gingerly readjusted the sling that supported his right arm and hunched into the pain, praying that the spasms brought on by the jolting ride would soon taper off.

Pulling the bar's weather-worn wooden door open, Sam was assaulted with the combined smells of liquor, sweat and stale cigarette smoke. The past few days had done nothing to quiet his unsettled stomach and the overwhelming stench did little to improve its rather cranky disposition.

Striding to the bar, Sam settled onto a tall stool and ordered a beer, doing so more for the purpose of blending in than for actually enjoying the drink. As he scanned the room, he sipped tentatively at the brew, hoping that it didn't aggravate his stomach into an all out rebellion. If he hoped to work a hustle, puking on his prospective victim's shoes wouldn't exactly get it off on the right foot. Not to mention that he still hadn't been eating all that well and a surefire way to screw up a hustle was to get drunk by drinking on an empty stomach.

Sam sat for twenty minutes trying to soothe the pain in his arm while sizing up the boisterous congregation of men playing cards at the corner table. A fair number of beer bottles had accumulated amongst the group and Sam could see that the bets had gotten outlandishly daring and the play had gotten rather sloppy. One very drunk young man with a five o'clock shadow, torn jeans, a plaid shirt and a filthy cowboy hat rose awkwardly from his chair, nearly knocking the table over and staggered away complaining bitterly about losing a week's pay.

Sam adjusted the position of his sling yet again, hissing as the throbbing in his arm picked up its pace, and wandered in the direction of the game. "Looks like you could use some fresh blood," Sam offered up innocently. "Would it be ok if I sat in for a while?"

The three rather rough looking characters at the table stared up at Sam before glancing back at each other. It was obvious to Sam that they thought he was an easy mark but he purposefully acted as though he didn't know it. His eyes shot back and forth over the men in a wide-eyed and eager way that was meant to increase his appearance of wet-behind-the-ears naiveté.

"Sure," the dealer purred almost gleefully, already imagining the amount of money he and his buddies would easily fleece from Sam. "You know how to play Texas Hold 'em, kid?"

"I...I think so," Sam stammered hesitantly to add to his ruse. "I don't get to play all that much." That much was true. Dean had always preferred pool to poker as his favored hustle and it was the rare opportunity for Sam to play a game he'd excelled at during the informal poker nights at college. As far as Sam was concerned, Texas Hold 'em was perfect and he couldn't have asked for a better choice of games for someone as analytical as himself.

"That's ok, uh..."

"Vince," Sam supplied as he settled into the chair and made a big show of preparing his playing surface and stacking his chips.

"That's ok, Vince," the dealer assured, glancing again at the other men. "Cole and Trey and me...we just enjoy a little friendly competition. If we can earn some drinkin' money in the process, well, all the better. Ain't that right, boys?"

"You betcha, Cooper." Trey held up his longneck in salute and took a giant swig to prove his point.

Sam allowed a half-dozen or more hands to play out using poor strategy, occasionally asking a question about the basic rules or double-checking the monetary amounts assigned to the different poker chips to strengthen the other men's perception that he didn't really know much about poker. Slowly, he allowed himself to begin winning a few hands, just a small pot or two here or there. He needed to win some decent money but if he snapped the trap shut too soon, his prey was sure to turn tail and run before he could win what he needed.

It wasn't helping, though, that his arm just wouldn't quiet down. In fact, it seemed as though it was only hurting him more and he found himself squirming and readjusting his sling more and more. No matter what he did, he couldn't seem to easy the intense throbbing in his right forearm and he could feel beads of sweat popping out on his forehead. Worse yet, his attention was being drawn away by the pain and he was beginning to find it hard to concentrate sufficiently on the game. Sam knew that if he was going to win enough to get by on, it was now or never. His arm just wasn't going to let him stay in the game much longer and he played with all the skill he had, winning the next seven substantial pots in a row.

By the end of that fifth hand, the room had become nearly stifling and the pain in Sam's arm had become close to unbearable. He was shifting and tugging at his arm and sling almost constantly now and he knew he just _had_ to find a room for the night. "Sorry, guys," Sam apologized as he rose from the table, cradling his right arm. "You play a good game of poker but I've gotta be going. Still need to get a room yet."

Cole, Trey and Cooper watched with angry stares as Sam gathered his duffel and moved towards the exit. Neither man was happy about the money they'd lost, especially since it had been to someone who had seemed to be such a lightweight poker player.

On his way by, Sam stepped into the dimly lit and dirt encrusted men's room. Feeling really hot and lightheaded, he stooped over the cruddy sink and splashed some cool water on his face. Reaching up with his left hand, he snatched a rough paper towel from the nearby dispenser and dabbed lightly at his face. Straightening up, he turned and leaned his back against the sink and slipped half of his winnings into his left boot. The other half, he slid into his pocket before turning back around and splashing his face once more with the cool water. This time, he didn't bother to wipe the dripping water from his face, instead, just turning the spigot off and heading for the door.

He had no more than stepped into the dark, narrow hallway when he felt a sudden shove from behind.

"Oops, sorry. Didn't mean to hurt an _injured_ man." Sam had turned in the direction of the voice but couldn't see who it was that was standing in the shadows. Still, he recognized the voice as Trey's

and the menacing tone put him immediately on high alert.

"I'm not looking for any trouble, Trey," Sam called out. "What I won, was won fair and square. I just want to find a motel and get some sleep."

"You hear that, boys?," Trey droned. "Pretty-boy says he won fair and square."

Sam turned to find Cole and Cooper behind him and looking decidedly unhappy. Although he could use every dime he'd earned, Sam decided he needed to try something to defuse the situation. "Here," Sam said as he held out the half of the cash he'd stuffed in his pocket.

Cole snatched the cash from Sam's outstretched hand and started counting it. "That's only _half_ of what you took from us, you son of a bitch." Cole stepped forward and shoved Sam hard into the wall. A small grunt escaped Sam's control as pain seared its way up his arm and shoulder. "You think it's funny? Huh? You think yer better'n us?"

"I bet you ain't really injured, neither," Trey accused as he slipped a finger under the strap of Sam's sling and tugged on it. Sam felt the room shift as spasms ripped through the muscles in his arm. "I bet you been usin' that as a way to hide cards. No wonder you were able to out bet us all them times. You knew you had good cards tucked in that sling!"

"Look, I already told you," Sam spat between clenched teeth. "I played a fair game. I just want to find a motel room and get some sleep."

"I think we can help Vinny with that, don't you boys?," Cooper purred out in false friendliness, seconds before one of his humongous hands clamped down on Sam's left shoulder with an impossibly muscular hold and propelled him roughly through a nearby emergency exit.

Once outside, Sam knew things had gone from bad to worse. Inside, there had been a slim chance one of the other bar patrons might step in and help him. Outside, he was completely alone in a three against one situation with only one good arm with which to fight.

The lighting at the rear of the building was weak at best and Sam tried to size up the threat he faced from each man by using what he remembered about each one's physical appearances. Cooper was huge and incredibly powerful, but his larger frame would make him slower and, overall, probably the least dangerous of the three.

Trey was leaner and therefore probably faster on his feet but he was also cocky, brash and impulsive. That trait had caused him to react before he could think through his strategy during the poker game and he'd lost big. It was a pretty safe bet that he would react similarly during a fight and that would give Sam's strategic fighting style a slight upper hand.

Cole was another story. He was lithe and athletic and perfectly built to be a fighter. His center of gravity was lower to the ground and he had massive upper arms. During the game, Cole had been the one that had thoughtfully studied his cards, not making a bet or a play until he understood the consequences of each possible move. When they were still inside, Cole had eyed Sam with the ominous glare of someone who thought he'd been duped and insulted. But, if he fought like he played poker, Sam knew Cole wouldn't get into the fight until he was pretty damned sure he had the upper hand.

Sam watched Cole closely as the trio circled him. He was thankful that neither one of them appeared to have any weapons other than their fists, but a stiff wind was kicking up from the encroaching thunderstorm and the blowing sand was making it hard to see. Sam ducked his head behind his left arm to keep the dust out of his eyes. He knew it was a mistake leaving his core wide open but he couldn't defend himself if he couldn't see, either.

Fat round drops of cold rain began to fall just as Trey launched his attack, catching Sam nearly straight-on around the waist and slamming him harshly into the brick wall at the rear of the bar. Spears of pain furrowed their way up Sam's right arm and he instinctively cradled the aggravated limb, once again leaving himself open to attack.

Trey grabbed the opportunity and savagely hammered his fist into Sam's gut, forcing the air from his lungs and causing him to double over. A barrage of punches landed on every unprotected area of Sam's body as Trey flailed wildly at him. Sam stayed bent over until he could pull air back into his lungs and then, with one great heave, he brought his right knee up until it connected painfully with Trey's unguarded groin.

Cooper hadn't been far behind Trey and, as the lighter man fell away whimpering, Cooper resumed the attack. Sam was caught off-guard when Cooper slammed a fearsome uppercut into the left side of his jaw, causing twinkling stars to blossom through his vision. Sam stumbled backwards a few steps, the salty, coppery taste of blood on his tongue from the busted lip the punch had opened up.

Shaking his head to clear it, Sam anticipated the heavier man's charge and shifted his balance in order to swing at Cooper with a roundhouse kick. With his right arm bundled close to his body in the sling, Sam's balance was off and the kick was lower and less powerful than it usually would have been. Even so, Sam heard the sickening crunch of breaking ribs and Cooper howled in pain. The injury only deterred the hulking man for mere moments before he let loose with a salvo of increasingly angry punches, not caring in the least where they landed or what damage they did, just so long as they hurt like hell.

One of the punches smashed into Sam's right shoulder and he cried out in pain, his knees buckling just as Trey returned to the scuffle and grabbed at Sam, snagging the supportive sling and ripping it viciously from Sam's right arm. Trey fisted large handfuls of Sam's clothing in his hands and hauled him upwards, shaking him with each snarled accusation. "You cheated, didn't you?! You were hiding cards the whole time, weren't you?!"

Sam's head was swimming and a heavy sweat had broken out on his skin as the pain in his arm ratcheted to astronomical levels. The shorter Trey easily whipped him around and shoved him hard towards Cooper, who wrapped his huge, muscular arms around Sam from the back, Cooper's left arm hooking over Sam's left arm and pinning it back between their bodies while his right hand grabbed an enormous hank of Sam's chestnut hair and pulled his head back at an awkward angle.

"I'll teach you never to run a rigged game again, you bastard," Trey spit at Sam, before ramming his fist into his face. A warm gush of blood poured from Sam's nose, snaking its way over his lips and chin and down his neck. The world became a fuzzy place of loud, garbled shouts and physical abuse and Sam was pretty certain if Cooper hadn't had a death grip on his hair he wouldn't have been able to hold his head up on his own. "Let's find out just how much of a _gimp_ you really are!"

Sam shrieked a feral and utterly primal sounding scream as Trey grabbed at the bandages encasing his right arm and tore at them like a wolf shaking the carcass of its dead prey. He felt his knees buckle again as the edges of his vision began to gray, but Cooper's strong arms refused to release him and his head lolled loosely on Cooper's heavily muscled shoulder.

"Sweet Jesus," Trey gasped after the sixth tug at Sam's bandages had left them dangling in tatters, the still-gaping wound nearly completely uncovered. The large, thick retention sutures stood out starkly against the raw wound that spanned Sam's right palm and half way up the underside of the arm. Thin trickles of blood ran down his arm and dripped from Sam's swollen, discolored fingers, spattering onto the pile of unraveled gauze at his feet. "I never imagined his arm..."

"I don't give a shit what the hell's wrong with him," Cole barked. "His fuckin' head could be rotting off for all I care. He made fools out of us, he played us as idiots, and he's gonna pay for that."

Sam moaned quietly, his eyes rolling, glazed and unfocused, as raindrops pelted his pale face and matted his chestnut hair to his head. Cole walked over and stood in front of the barely conscious hunter, his eyes filled with animosity.

Sam rallied what little strength he had left and quickly slipped his left arm free, swinging his fist in a wide, powerful arc and connected solidly with Cole's right cheekbone. The punch sent Cole windmilling backwards into Trey, nearly sending the both of them crashing to the ground.

Recovering his balance, Cole reached his hand to his face, the fingertips coming back tipped with the blood that was oozing freely from a small laceration on his cheek. He worked his jaw several times as he returned to his position in front of Sam. Cooper had regained his grip on Sam, once again easily restraining the exhausted young hunter.

"You just wanted to find a place to sleep, huh? I'll be more than happy to help you with that," Cole hissed. The strong, wiry man plunged a vicious left uppercut into Sam's core and quickly followed it with a bone jarring right cross to Sam's left eye that instantaneously plunged him into a world of darkness.

Sam's slack body crumpled to the ground, a soupy muck of storm-swept Nevada mud sloshing thickly across the yawning, unprotected wound on his arm. Cole straddled Sam's motionless body and leaned down, catching a fistful of Sam's hair in his fingers and lifting his listless head. "I think the accommodations right here are just perfect. Now you can get all the beauty sleep you want, Princess."

Cole slammed his fist into Sam's left eye and cheekbone a second time, splitting a wide chasm in the skin just above his eyebrow. Cole watched with a satisfied grin as the raindrops mixed with the flow of blood and sent a river of crimson dripping to the desert floor. "I'll be sure to order you some room service," Cole declared mockingly as he rose, purposefully toeing Sam roughly in the gut as he lifted his foot to step over Sam's unmoving frame.

**-:-:-:-:-:-:-**

The storm had blown past in a whirl of thunder, lightning and a short but intense downpour of rain. It had left the Nevada landscape in muddy puddles that would face a quick and certain extinction when the unforgiving morning sun returned. Now, though, thin trickles of rainwater ran from the honky-tonk's rooftop and dripped from holes in the building's neglected downspouts, tapping silently on the young man's milky pale skin as he lay in an apparently lifeless heap near the base of the building.

Sam stirred slightly when several drops pattered onto his face and rolled quietly down his cheek. He reached up with his left hand and swiped clumsily at his face, hissing at the pain that flared across his cheek. Sam allowed his eyes to flutter open but he found that he couldn't see more than a small sliver of blurry colors through his left eye. He gently explored the cheek with the tips of his fingers and realized his restricted vision was the result of a grossly swollen eye. It didn't take much to deduce that the stickiness on his fingers was probably blood.

Despite the blurriness of his left eye, Sam could see that he was lying on his right side in the wet dirt near the base of a brick wall. How long he'd been there he just wasn't sure. Sam shivered convulsively in the chilly evening air, an earnest whimper escaping at the waves of misery that shook him. Every muscle in his body seemed to scream at the small movements and he tried hard to clear his head enough to think of just what had happened to make him feel so wretched.

Sam stilled his thoughts, his ears straining to hear the sounds around him. It was muffled, but he could hear the distinctively twangy notes of Country-Western music coming from behind the brick wall he was facing. Vague memories of his fight with Cole, Cooper and Trey flooded back to him and he closed his eyes against the increasing throb he could feel building in his head.

Sam shivered again and knew he_ had_ to get himself off of the ground, out of the rapidly cooling desert air and into some dry clothing. He slowly pulled his left knee up, the motion aggravating his battered ribs and abdominal muscles and levered himself over onto his back. Sam howled as pain blasted through his right arm. The motion of turning over had caused the damp dirt to scrape across the raw, exposed skin like sandpaper.

Breathing heavily, Sam pushed himself to a sitting position and quickly shuffled himself so that his back leaned against the building. Pain blossomed from everywhere and he thought for certain he would lose consciousness again as his already diminished vision shifted and wobbled crazily. It took several minutes, but he was able to work through it by resting his head against the dying warmth of the previously sun-baked bricks and breathing in deep gulps of cool air.

Sam opened his eyes and surveyed himself. His clothes were still damp and layered with a thin film of sandy mud. Where there wasn't mud, there were splatters of crimson that he discovered had either come from the cut above his left eye, from his nose or from the bleeding split near the corner of his puffy lower lip. The previously scuffed knuckles of his left hand were now just plain raw and bloodied, as well.

He huddled with his right arm carefully resting in his lap. What little gauze bandaging that was left was hopelessly soaked with muddy water and he figured it was a pretty sure bet that, if the lighting were better, he'd find a fair amount of grit nestled in the open wound. He'd bought dressing supplies early on and had put the dressing change off until he'd already been on the road a few days. He'd stalled another two days since he last re-bandaged the arm because the chore had proven nearly impossible to do on his own and had hoped to wait another day. _Guess there's no putting it off now,_ he mused to himself.

Sam looked around but didn't find any trace of the money he'd been carrying and instinctively knew that the three toughs had taken it. He snaked his fingers deeply down inside his left boot and sighed in relief that they hadn't been bright enough to look for the half of his winnings that he'd hidden away. At least he still had enough to get a room and some food and still have plenty to get him to his next destination.

Sam cradled his right arm close and pushed to a standing position. A wave of dizziness hit him almost immediately. He knew that if he was going to be anywhere near functional, he was going to have to get his right arm back in the sling because he needed the left one to help balance himself and stay on his feet.

He wasn't sure just where the sling had gotten to during the rumble, but it didn't take him long to find the long trail of soiled gauze that had been brutally ripped from his right arm. His steps were slow and wavering as he followed along, finding his sling lying amongst a pile of overflowing garbage bags from the bar.

Sam found a discarded bucket and kicked it over so that it was resting upside down. He settled slowly onto its upturned bottom, wincing at the pull on his abdominals and the strain on his lifeless arm. Sam had hardly exerted himself and yet he could already feel small rivulets of sweat starting to trace down the sides of his face. He gingerly leaned his arm on his right thigh and gently leaned forward just enough to snatch the sling from the ground.

He lightly slapped the dingy sling against the left leg of his jeans to try to remove as much dirt as he could. Sam took a deep breath and, gritting his teeth against what he knew would be excruciating pain, he used his left hand to pull the sling over the unprotected wound on his arm. With every advancement of the rough cloth, a fiery pain ground its way across the sensitive surface of Sam's skin.

By the time the sling was tugged into place, Sam could feel his stomach roiling wildly and he felt again as though he was going to pass out. He quickly secured the sling around his neck and sat with his head hanging for several minutes until the feeling had passed.

Sam shivered violently again as the cool night breeze caressed the damp surfaces of his skin and rain-soaked clothing. He really didn't feel up to leaving his perch, but he knew that the longer he stayed there the more warmth and energy he was losing...and it was energy he was going to need in order to clean out the soil-encrusted wound. He'd seen a motel just a few blocks down when he and Lewis had pulled into town. It certainly hadn't looked like five-star accommodations but, with any luck, they'd have a vacant room.

**-:-:-:-:-:-:-**

Sam's steps had become increasingly unsteady as he lurched his way down the main street. He knew that the motel had only been a few blocks away but, by the time he'd started across the motel's parking lot, it felt as though he'd hiked for miles. The trip had only been made worse by the chafing of the sling on the bare skin of his right arm, the pain increasing exponentially with each step. Sam really wasn't sure just how much more of this he could take and he raked his left hand across his face, wiping away beads of sweat that had congregated on his upper lip and swallowing hard against the rising taste of bile.

He stumbled as he stepped onto the sidewalk outside the motel and would have gone down if he hadn't been able to catch himself on a soda machine that was positioned not far from the office entrance. Sam leaned against the vending machine, allowing the coolness of it to soak into his sweaty forehead. His head was absolutely pounding and he could feel himself trembling slightly.

Sam fisted the crumpled bills he'd won at Skelly's in his hand and practically fell through the door into the office. _Keep the legs moving. Gotta get a room. Stay upright. _

The exhausted hunter staggered slightly as he made his way across the small office lobby, his left hand falling heavily on the bell at the desk. _Just a few more minutes. Can't pass out. _Sam leaned into the desk as he felt himself sway badly. He reached up with the back of his left hand and pawed at the sweat that dripped from the ends of his hair that stuck to his forehead.

"Can I help you?"

Sam stared dumbly at the desk clerk and then down at the wrinkled money in his hand. _A room. With a bed. I want a room. I told you that already, right?_

The clerk peered at Sam as though he had grown a second head. He reached out and snapped his fingers in Sam's face. "Hey, kid. You want a room, or what?"

"Huh?" Sam wiped again at his forehead. "Uh…wha' was that?" _God, it's hot in here. I think I'm gonna be sick. Holy shit, my arm hurts so damned bad._

"A _room_," the clerk stressed the word as though he thought maybe Sam didn't understand English. "You want a room?"

"Room," Sam repeated slowly, the word dragging out almost unnaturally. "Yeah." _I _know_ I'm gonna be sick. I have a room somewhere, I think. I should probably lay down and rest._

"That's gonna be fifty-nine-twenty-five," the clerk declared. The rate was higher than he charged most customers but by the looks of him, this guy wouldn't bring much but trouble with him. If he was going to have to deal with that kind of hassle, he was going to make some decent change over it. He was also going to do what he could to keep the cops from nosing around. That kind of stuff could be bad for business. "You just make sure you do your buyin' _off_ the premises, got it? I don't care what you do behind closed doors, but I don't want no drug deals goin' down on my doorstep. You hear?"

Sam's brow wrinkled in confusion and he blinked his increasingly unfocused eyes several times before answering. The room spun faster as Sam attempted to comprehend the clerk's words and he finally just gave up and agreed anyway. "Uh…'kay."

Sam scrubbed his left hand roughly on his forehead. He was feeling really lightheaded and hoped the vigorous massage of his hand would help to clear the cobwebs a little. "Gonna go lay down," Sam added blearily when he saw the clerk staring expectantly at him.

"Some money would be helpful first," the clerk snorted out condescendingly.

_Oh. I thought we'd done this already,_ Sam thought as he stared wide-eyed at the money in his hand. He swallowed again as another wave of nausea rushed over him and he pitched slightly over the top of the counter. He closed his eyes for a long moment as he willed the room to stop shifting and for the fire in his arm to die down. "Um…," Sam stammered as he flopped his left palm heavily over onto the desk, squashing the sweat-dampened bills beneath it. He began sorting slowly through the bills. "Twen'y…um, forty…five…uh…thir'y five. No, not right."

"Um…twen'y…for'y…sizzy…" Sam used the back of his arm to brush at the sweat that had started dripping into his eyes. He added another twenty dollar bill to the pile and continued counting. "Twen'y…"

"Wait. Tha' can't be right." _How's that go again? Twenty…forty…um…God, my arm hurts. Can I lay down?_

Sam's shaky hand pushed the bills around on the counter a bit more, finally lining up three, twenty dollar bills. "I thin' that's cloz 'nuff," Sam mumbled as he grabbed clumsily for the key.

"Good enough for me, pal." The clerk had tired of watching Sam fumble with making the right change. All he really wanted, was to go back to watching the local bullriding coverage. It was just about time for the short-go and his favorite rider had drawn a really tough bull. That was one ride he just didn't want to miss. "Stagger yer way out and to the right," he called out as Sam stumbled through the doorway. "It's the third door!"

_Roomthreeroomthreeroomthree. God, I'm gonna hurl. Jesus, why can't the world just stop spinning. It would be so much better if the world just stopped spinning._

On the fourth try, Sam managed to get the key into the lock and clumsily forced the door to his room open. Tumbling through the entrance, Sam barely made it to the trash can next to the bed before he went to his knees and wretched painfully. He hadn't eaten much over the past several days and nothing at all today, but he couldn't seem to stop the dry heaves. Each wracking spasm sent spikes of agony throughout his abused body.

His head felt as though it was going to explode and a fire raged out of control in his arm. To make matters worse, the continued chafing of the sling had renewed the bleeding from his right arm and he could feel the warm wetness of blood soaking through the sling and into the material of his shirt.

The heaving finally stopped and he grabbed for his nearby duffel. As miserable as he felt, the arm would need to be cared for before he could rest. Pushing off from the floor, Sam lurched across the room, knocking the trash can on its side as he went. His balance faltered and he bounced wildly off a small desk, knocking over the small desk lamp and sending a pad of paper, some pens, an assortment of matchbooks and an ashtray skittering helter-skelter to the floor. Sam's uncoordinated feet got caught up in the legs of the chair as he attempted to right his balance, tripping him and sending him slithering to the floor in a heap with his right arm trapped beneath him.

His body's weight on his arm was excruciating and Sam quickly rolled to his back. He clamped his lower lip between his teeth to keep from screaming and drew his knees up protectively, hissing in deep gulps of air as bolts of vivid lightning shot crazily across his vision.

The pain was horrendous and as the gnawing misery bit its way into every cell of Sam's right arm he threw his left arm wide from his body, his fingers scratching and digging deeply at the motel's tacky shag carpet as though doing so could tear away the agony he was enduring.

As the minutes ticked by and his breathing slowed, the pain settled into an acidic burn that was becoming all too constant and familiar. Sam dragged at the linens from the nearby bed until most of them ended up lying on the floor and his exhausted body was finally sprawled in a disordered heap on the bed. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew he needed to tend to his arm but he just couldn't get his heavy body to comply.

_Sleep. I gotta sleep. Just a little while. Arm later, sleep now, _Sam thought lazily as the darkness claimed him.

**-:-:-:-:-:-:-**

**Present day  
****Outside the Sagebrush Motel, Central Nevada**

"We're gonna find him, Dean. He'll be ok," Bobby tried to reassure.

"Holy shit, Bobby," Dean bit out as he swung suddenly from his spot leaning against the Impala to face the older hunter. "Did you hear all of that? Pale? Sweaty? Trouble concentrating? He's killing himself on a crusade for hunting's equivalent of a search for the Holy Grail! Because of what?! Because he thinks Colt's journal and the casting plates are authentic just because some whack-job says they are? Come on, Bobby! You know how many of these things have been hoaxes. The Hitler Diary, Mussolini's Diary, the Jack the Ripper Diary. He's killing himself! And what's it gonna get him?! Not a God. Damned. Thing!"

Bobby stood quietly, his downcast eyes occasionally glancing up at Dean. The boy was yelling at him but Bobby realized that he had just needed a chance to vent and that none of it was really aimed at him. With each passing day Dean had become increasingly high-strung and Bobby had figured it was just a matter of time before he blew.

When Dean's tirade was over, Bobby leaned in through the Impala's open passenger window and fished a United States map from the glove box. He unfurled the multi-fold paper and wordlessly spread it on the hood of the classic car. He bent over the map, one eye on it, the other on Dean. If he pushed Dean, the stressed out young man was likely to blow again instead of thinking things through clearly. But if he waited, Dean's innate curiosity would get the best of him and he'd willingly and rationally join in Bobby's analysis of the situation.

Minutes later, a small, satisfied grin spread over Bobby's face as he noticed Dean wandering over and leaning in over his right shoulder to view the map. _You fell for it hook, line and sinker, boy. Works every time._

"I guess our location puts us about here," Bobby stated matter-of-factly, one of his grease-stained fingers pointing to an area near the center of Nevada.

"He's moved around a lot," Dean reasoned. "When he left here, that was the fourth move in four days. I'm sure he knows we'd try to follow him and he's doing everything he can to shake us."

"Makes sense," Bobby agreed. _Atta boy, Dean. I knew if I could get you to focus your anxiety and frustration that you'd get your head in the game. "_Trick is to figure out where the fourth move took him."

Dean's eyes shot back and forth across the map, a look of intense concentration on his face. He raised his right hand to his face and slowly rubbed it across his mouth before ending by tugging lightly at his lower lip in uncertainty.

"You find somethin', Dean?"

"Maybe," Dean hedged, eyes still glued to the map. "I'm not sure. You got a pen on you?"

Bobby pushed his insulated, flannel shirt back and retrieved a pen from the breast pocket of the button-down he wore. Dean held out his hand without ever diverting his attention from the map and Bobby slapped the pen into it as though Dean was a surgeon receiving his scalpel at the outset of an operation.

"Do me a favor, Bobby. List off all of the locations we've followed him to."

"Well, lemme see. Move one was to Rosary, Nevada..."

Dean found the town on the map and marked it's location with the pen.

"Move two was to Apparition Springs, Utah..."

Again, Dean marked the location on the map.

"And move three took him back here. Back to Nevada." Bobby looked at Dean expectantly, obviously not picking up on whatever it was that Dean had. "Ok, so I'm still not seeing the connection."

"Here," Dean stated excitedly as he pushed the pen at his friend. "Connect the dots in the same order as Sam's movements."

Bobby traced the pen along the map, connecting each town in the exact order that Sam had visited them. When he finished, he put the pen down but kept his eyes riveted to the map.

"Are you seeing the same thing I am?," Dean wondered out loud.

"It's a little lopsided, but it looks like his movements are forming a pentagram," Bobby asserted, looking to Dean for confirmation. When Dean silently nodded his head, the older hunter continued on. "If he's keeping to pattern, we can be pretty sure that he's moved roughly northeast from here to form the next arm of the pentagram. But that still leaves an awful lot of territory to search. It's like the proverbial needle in the haystack."

"Not if you know where the prick is," Dean quipped, clearly enjoying his own pun.

"You know where Sam went?" Bobby looked at Dean with an expression of sheer astonishment.

"Well, I'm not one-hundred percent sure...but I'd be willing to bet your truck on it."

"Hey! You keep yer mitts off my truck," Bobby shouted indignantly, another grin flashing across Dean's face at the mock outrage in the older man's voice. _Good to have the old Dean back, _Bobby thought.

"Check this out," Dean proclaimed as he drew his friend's attention back to the map. He pointed to each town successively, stressing each of their names. "_Rosary,_ Nevada; _Apparition _Springs_, _Utah; and then here to this motel in _Exorcism,_ Nevada. The town names, Bobby, they all have something to do with hunting!"

"Well, I'll be dipped in hog spit."

"Yeah," Dean chuckled. "And there's only one place that I know of in this area..." Dean circled his finger over a portion of the map. "...that's northeast of our current location and fits the pattern of names and that's Devil's Ladder, Idaho. Bobby, I think Sam's in Idaho."

* * *

**To be continued...**

* * *

A/N: "Vagabond of the Western World" is the fifth track on the 1973 album, "Vagabonds of the Western World". It was the third studio album released by the Irish band, Thin Lizzy. It seemed like the perfect choice since Sam has been wandering from place to place around the American West...just like a vagabond.


	6. Sick as a Dog

**Disclaimer: **I can claim ownership of nothing more than any WTF's this story may contain. As always, this chapter is presented to you completely un-beta'd.

**A/N: **This chapter finally finds Sam, Dean & Bobby all in the same state, at the same place, on the same day and at the same time. I guess that means things will be getting back to normal...pauses dramatically...Oh, come on, when does anything Winchester ever include normal?

* * *

**Atrox**

**Chapter 5: Sick as a Dog**

**Next day (Wednesday, April 19****th****)  
****Dusk-2-Dawn Motel; Devil's Ladder, Idaho****  
9:13 AM**

Sam tossed on the bed in nothing but his boxers and his twisted sheets. In fact, he'd been twisting and turning all night. No matter what he did, it just seemed as though nothing eased the discomfort in his right arm. Sure, the arm hurt before, but, at that point, it had seemed that there was always something that set it off...getting pegged by the door at the bus station, bumping down the road in Lewis's truck, Sam's little "disagreement" with Cooper, Cole and Trey.

Now, the arm was just throbbing constantly and the Tylenol and Motrin weren't even touching it in the least. In fact, the only thing the Tylenol and Motrin seemed to be doing was upsetting his stomach and assassinating what little appetite Sam had. Then again, he'd been eating handfuls of the stuff for days now and he was certain he'd been downing doses that had far exceeded those recommended on the boxes. No wonder his stomach was rebelling.

Sam had thought about hitting a free clinic and getting something stronger, but that was problematic. With an injury like the one he was sporting, he was sure to draw attention and be easily remembered. It wasn't every day someone with a yawning wound from a poisonous snakebite showed up on your doorstep. Anyway, Sam knew Dean and Bobby would be hot on his trail by now and they were too smart not to be checking the hospitals and clinics along the way as a method to track his movements.

Secondly, anything stronger than the Motrin would pretty much plant him firmly in the territory of narcotic pain pills. If he could find a doctor that would be willing to give a prescription for a narcotic to someone with an out of state ID, he wouldn't have enough money to get it filled, anyway. If he was really lucky and they were willing to give him a few pills to get started on, he knew the medicine would probably knock him on his ass for hours at a time. And they were precious hours he couldn't afford to waste if he was going to stay ahead of his brother.

The arm, the arm, the arm. Everything seemed to revolve around the damned arm. All of it - Sam's pain, his inability to do simple things for himself, the difficulties he encountered traveling, the unending fatigue and the trouble he'd had defending himself - it was all because of the arm and Sam was tired of it. Being on the road all of the time was hard enough but, man, it _really_ sucked when you just didn't feel all that great.

Sam groaned loudly and stretched against the restriction of the knotted sheets, hoping he could tap into some hidden reserve of motivation deep within himself. All he really wanted to do right now was pull the covers up over his head, block out his pain, ignore the world and go back to sleep. Although, even when he _did_ sleep he never seemed to wake up rested. He may well have left Bobby and Dean back in California, but exhaustion and pain were his constant companions these days.

He'd been running on adrenalin for days now and as much as Sam wanted to just stay in bed, it was time to move on to Wyoming, not to mention that he needed to look after the arm again. It hadn't been easy getting what must have accounted for half the Nevada desert out of the wound when he'd finally woken the day before at the motel back in Exorcism, Nevada.

It took much of Sam's first aid supplies to clean it and nearly all of the stamina he'd had. In the end, he wasn't even sure how thorough a job he'd been able to do. Between the pain it caused and the clumsiness of having to work, not only one-handed, but _left_-handed, he'd had to be a bit resourceful.

He hadn't been capable of doing the nice, neat, and complex bandaging job they'd done in the hospital, so he had just settled for soaking the last of his gauze pads in peroxide and spreading a thin layer of them over the hand and arm from palm to elbow. Then using his knife, he'd sliced the toe portion from a clean over-the-calf tube sock and gingerly pulled it over top to hold the gauzes loosely in place.

Just thinking back over the struggles he'd had caring for the wound made Sam feel even more tired and he sighed heavily. He'd also been trying to work on strengthening and moving his right arm and hand since he'd signed out of the hospital, using rest periods during his journey as a chance to attempt moving the muscles. It had finally started to pay off...but really only in his upper arm.

At least now, though, he was able to bend the elbow on his own, without an assist from the left arm. It didn't happen without a spike of pain, but that pain was a hell of a sight easier to cope with than the one he got whenever the limb had banged uselessly at his side. The basic mobility didn't mean, however, that he could stop wearing that horrid sling. Yes, he could move the elbow and even hold the arm at a ninety-degree angle...but not for long. The weakened muscles tired quickly and the sling gave the arm the rest spot it needed.

Steeling himself for the bite of pain he'd feel, Sam flexed the muscles in his right arm, lifting it gingerly and placing it high on his right thigh, near to his body, where it would be supported as he swung his legs over the side of the bed. Using his left arm, he pushed himself to a sitting position on the edge. Sam looked down at the offending arm to see that the athletic sock was stained in varying shades of red and yellow. _Great, just great. That's gonna feel wonderful pulling off the stuck-on gauze._

The young hunter pushed to a standing position and was shocked when he suddenly found himself sitting haphazardly back on the bed, his head swimming lightly. He shook his head and scrubbed his left hand across his eyes before pushing to a standing position again. He stood there a few seconds until the room stopped swaying then padded tiredly the short distance to the bathroom.

_What the hell is wrong with me? I haven't even walked twenty feet and I'm already exhausted, _Sam mused as he leaned against the frame of the bathroom door. He started to bend to grab the duffel at his feet and felt the room shift again and thought better of it. Gripping the door frame for support, Sam simply prodded the bag around the frame and into the bathroom with his bare foot.

Sam retrieved the sling from the towel rack and flung it onto the sink vanity with a washcloth. He'd tried washing the sling out the night before, but that had done little to improve on its rather foul appearance. On more than one occasion, blood had seeped through his bandages and, despite the most thorough cleaning Sam could manage, multiple maroon stains still remained. The cleaning attempts had done even less for the front of his blood-soaked shirt and Sam had eventually just tossed it down on his small pile of dirty laundry at the foot of the bed, figuring he'd just hit a coin laundry on his way out of town.

Sam settled onto the closed toilet lid with a tired sigh and began rolling the soiled sock-dressing from his right arm. When he was done, he allowed it to fall from his fingertips and onto the floor. As he sat back against the tank, he realized just that little bit already had him breathing heavily and his whole body felt like lead. _Man, I feel like crap. Haven't felt this bad since Dean was nice enough to share the flu with me last year._

He leaned forward and turned on the tap. His head spun again and he jammed his left shoulder against the vanity to support himself as he twiddled his fingers under the warming water. _Geez, what's up with this dizziness? I didn't eat anything yesterday...maybe that's it._

Once the water was just the right temperature, Sam grabbed the nearby washrag and wet it generously before pushing unsteadily back upright. _This is _**so**_ not good. I'm just so tired...and my __arm hurts...I'm dizzy and now I feel like I could puke. God, I feel like shit. No, I don't even feel as good as shit. _

A small whimper escaped Sam's control as another small wave of dizziness swept over him. His breathing quickened as his stomach churned violently and he struggled to swallow down the encroaching nausea. _Maybe ditching Dean wasn't such a good idea. _

Forcing down the queasiness, Sam grit his teeth and slowly squeezed the washrag until warm water dripped onto the soiled and dried-on gauze pads. Although the water had felt just right to his left hand, the raw tissue of his right arm screamed in agony as the warmth spread over the gauzes in a firestorm of pain. Sam's stomach lurched dangerously again and the room spun even harder. He swallowed thickly and gripped the edge of the vanity as he waited for the dizziness to pass. _The water hasn't been running all _**that** _long. So why is it so damned hot in here? Man, I feel wretched. Maybe...maybe I oughta...when I'm done, I should...I gotta call Dean._

The decision made, Sam swiped his left hand across his sweaty forehead before turning his attention to the now dampened gauzes. Several areas began to ooze blood as he pulled away one gauze after another, hissing as they stuck slightly and pulled at the angry flesh underneath. Areas of a thick, yellow slough appeared as he worked his way down the arm, the tissues turning a sickly grayish color the closer he got to the palm.

The next gauze was stuck tightly and Sam knew he had no choice but to further dampen it. He carefully leaned forward, turned the tap to a slightly cooler setting and re-wet the washcloth. Pulling back, he left the tap running and hesitantly squeezed the cooler water onto the exposed wound.

Despite the adjustment in temperature, the gentle rush of water across the raw tissue still felt as though someone had dumped acid into the wound. A surge of lightheadedness flared through Sam and his vision danced with multi-colored dots. As he felt himself pitching forward, Sam flailed blindly for the edge of the vanity, the washcloth rolling into the basin of the sink as his wet fingers fumbled and slipped helplessly on the slick, porcelain surface.

Unable to gain a steadying grip on the sink, Sam's body crashed limply against the wall to his right as his vision blurred. The momentum caused by his slumped weight pulled him from his seat and he slithered gracelessly down the wall, twisting his upper body in his last conscious effort to protect his already tortured right arm.

**-:-:-:-:-:-:-**

**9:53 AM**

Dean pounded a meaty fist on the weathered wooden motel door as though he was hell-bent to shake it from its aging hinges. He fidgeted anxiously from foot to foot as he briefly waited for some sort of response and, getting none, renewed his agitated beating.

"Sam?! Sam!," Dean shouted in a voice loud enough to wake the dead. Dean had been shooting for an angry tone and he frowned that some measure of angst had entered his voice, as well. "I know you're in there, Sam, so you better open this God damned door before I kick it open!"

"I thought I told you to go easy on him, Dean," Bobby asked incredulously. "You want him to actually _open_ the door, don't ya?"

"That _is_ easy, Bobby," Dean growled as he pummeled the door with another barrage of fist pounding. "After what he's put us through, he's lucky it's only the door that I'm pummeling!"

"I'm just sayin', he's stubborn enough as it is. Gettin' all hot-headed with 'im's just gonna make 'im even more stubborn. Come on, you watched how things went down between him and your Daddy all those years."

Dean stopped in mid-pound, the last statement having clearly illustrated Bobby's point. Once provoked, Sam was as unlikely to back down as a pissed off badger. The trait had eventually ended with John's ultimatum and Sam walking out of their lives...quite possibly for good. If Dean was going to avoid a similar situation, he knew he'd have to start handling things differently.

Dean took a deep breath and placed the palm of his hand out flat on the door. He leaned his forehead against the worn, wooden surface and closed his eyes in an effort to calm himself. "I'm sorry, man," Dean started, true contrition infusing his tone with remorse. "It's just...the way you took off...it freaked me out, ok? I was worried about you. You're my baby brother and you were out here on your own chasing after that journal. God knows what kind of scary son of a bitch might have been tailing you. How could I _not _worry?"

Dean stopped and listened, hoping to hear the light tick of the door's lock clicking open seconds before the door would swing wide and his brother would stand in front of him expressing his mutual regret. Instead, the only answer was oppressive silence. "Come on, Sam. I'm sorry...really. Please, open the door."

Still hearing no response, Dean sighed heavily and looked at Bobby with forlorn and questioning eyes. Bobby shrugged helplessly as Dean stepped to the side, his head bobbing and ducking repeatedly as he tried his best to peer through the slightly parted slats of the window's Venetian blinds. Dean frowned at his inability to catch anything more than small glimpses of the room.

"See anything?," Bobby questioned hopefully.

"I can't see jack," Dean confessed ruefully. "Just some awful amber-colored carpeting..." Dean maneuvered in front of the window a few more times, craning his neck sharply in hopes of seeing even the tiniest bit more of the room. "small kitchenette...crappy ass TV...with 'rabbit ears' even. No cable?," Dean chided with a chuckle and a sardonic grin, "Geez, dude, you've gotta have _some_ standards. Even as much of a tightwad as Jefferson is, he makes sure to get ca-...Son of a...!"

Dean dashed for the motel room door and jammed his right shoulder into as hard as he could.

"Dean! What?," Bobby asked frantically.

Dean charged the unyielding door yet again then ground out through gritted teeth when he bounced ineffectively away, "A pile of bloody clothes, Bobby! I saw a pile of fucking blood soaked clothes!"

Dean reared back and slammed a heavy boot into the door just above the knob, followed quickly by the same move from Bobby. The cycle repeated, each kick even more fierce than the previous ones and the door's casement soon groaned under the assault. Dean's foot struck the door once more before the frame ripped loose with a resounding crack and the two hunters pushed into the room.

"Sam!" Dean's eyes shot frantically around the room, settling anxiously on Bobby as the older man examined the bloody shirt he'd grabbed from the clothing piled near the foot of the bed. A sound pulled Dean's attention from his friend and the younger hunter paused, turning his head a few times in an effort to try to identify the muted hissing sound that he was hearing.

Racing to the small bathroom, Dean tried to push the door open but met resistance. Looking down, he saw the spreading puddle of wetness leeching from under the bathroom door and onto the gaudy golden carpet. He pushed harder at the door. "Sammy!Sam!"

A faint groan came from behind the door and Dean felt the resistance lessen almost imperceptibly.

"Sam? It's Bobby," the older hunter called out over Dean's shoulder and through the partially open door. "Sam?"

"Sammy, I've gotta push on the door," Dean warned before giving it a gentle shove. A pained whimper accompanied the momentary resistance and then it was gone and the door nudged open wide.

Dean pushed into the tiny room and knelt next to Sam as Bobby quickly turned the still-open tap to the 'off' position. Lukewarm water continued to slosh over the basin's rim and splash to the floor, lapping shallowly around Sam and Dean. Bobby grabbed the few nearby bath towels and tossed them down in an effort to sop up the mess.

"Oh, my God, Sammy. Look at you," Dean whispered, his eyes quickly tracing over his brother's pale skin and impossibly thinner frame. _It's only been six days. How could he possibly have lost so much weight?_

Sam was lying on his right hip with his feet wedged in the tiny space between the tub and toilet and his upper body twisted so that his back laid nearly flat on the watery floor. His left elbow was jammed against the wall, forcing his hand to have nowhere to go but to flop limply onto his chest. His right arm laid extended to the side, the elbow bent and the swollen knuckles of his hand resting against the cupboard door under the sink. Blood oozed earnestly from the areas where the dressing had ripped free and it dripped silently into the water that still coated the cold linoleum floor. Sam's skin was very pale and he felt rather clammy but Dean couldn't be sure if that was due to the overflowing sink, or something else. A thick trickle of blood ran from Sam's lower lip where the fall had re-opened the split lip he'd suffered during the fight the day before.

Sam moaned softly, his head lolling towards his brother's voice and his eyes rolling under their lids. Dean lightly patted at Sam's cheek and tense moments passed before his eyes finally opened to half-mast, revealing glassy and unfocused slits of hazel.

Sam's brow wrinkled in confusion when he tried unsuccessfully to untangle his feet, the muscles in his legs bunching and rippling in multiple attempts. The struggle to move his legs was soon joined by efforts to move his pinned left arm, each endeavor becoming more and more frantic until Sam was nearly thrashing, eyes hazy and uncomprehending.

"Sam! Sam, look at me! It's Dean." The thrashing slowed as awareness crept back in and Sam blinked lazily at his older brother. "It's ok. You're alright. I'm here and so is Bobby."

Bobby crouched in closer, his eyes filled with concern as they scanned the young man in front of him. He didn't like what he was seeing. Sam was extremely pale and obviously very weak. Plus, Sam had some new, as yet unexplained, wounds. To top it all off, he'd passed out here in the bathroom. Dean and Sam were tough as forged steel and Bobby knew neither one just passed out for no reason. He turned and looked at Sam's right arm, a shiver slicing up his back at the condition of the wound. What he was seeing just did _not_ bode well.

"Dean?" Sam whispered so quietly that the two older hunters almost couldn't hear him. He stared owlishly at his older brother, squirming slightly against his wedged position on the floor. "You're here?"

Dean breathed out a relieved chuckle and a crooked smile lit his face. "Yeah, Sammy. It's me. I'm gonna move you a little, ok?" He leaned down and rolled Sam slightly to his right, untangled his long legs and then released his trapped left arm before allowing Sam to rest back again.

Sam's left hand immediately fisted and he ground the heel across his forehead and eyes. In that moment, it struck Dean how much Sam looked like he had when he was a tired toddler and was just too stubborn to give in to sleep. Trouble was, Sam didn't just look tired, he looked miserable.

"Dean? Dean, I don't feel so good," Sam whined softly, a small grimace flitting across his face.

"I know, Sammy. I know. We're gonna get you feeling better." Dean looked up at Bobby, their eyes meeting. Whether he knew it or not, Dean's eyes reflected a silent plea to the older man; a plea for Bobby to wake him from what could only be a nightmare. Bobby tried to broadcast an easy-going confidence to the older Winchester but knew his own worries had slipped through when he saw Dean's eyes fill and then dart quickly away.

"Sam," Bobby cut in as he fished the saturated towels from the floor and tossed them into the draining sink basin. "I'm gonna give you a hand with your right arm while Dean helps you to sit up."

Sam's only response was a tiny whimper. He felt so awful right now he just didn't want to move. It hurt when he moved. For that matter, it hurt when he _didn't _move. It just plain hurt all the time.

Sam was tired, too, and getting up would mean expending energy he just didn't have right now. Why couldn't he just stay where he was? Why couldn't he just stay there until he felt better, until his muscles didn't feel so shaky and uncoordinated?

Sam shivered against the cold that was beginning to seep into him. "Come on, Sammy," Dean implored as he bent and gently cradled his younger brother around both shoulders. "We've got to get you off this wet floor."

Dean hefted Sam's taller but lighter frame to a sitting position while Bobby guided Sam's right arm along with the motion. Sam's head lolled weakly as his weight fell heavily against Dean, a muffled groan rolling out against the older boy's chest as Bobby tenderly toweled the dripping water from Sam's bare back and shaggy hair.

Dean wrapped both arms around his younger brother, pulling him into a gentle embrace. Anxiety flashed through him when he felt Sam sag even further against him and he pushed Sam back away from him a bit. His eyes searched his younger brother's face, imploring him to find the strength to fight while he muttered soft words. "You can do this, Sam. That's it, stay with me. Come on. Help me out, here. I need you to bend your knees so that you can stand up. I'll help you. We'll do this together."

Dean motioned to Bobby and the two of them worked together to pull the younger hunter from the floor and to a standing position. When Sam's knees buckled, Dean scooted closer to his brother, slinging the younger boy's left arm across his shoulders and hooking his own right arm around Sam's waist.

Sam stumbled awkwardly several times during the short trip back to the bed and it took everything Dean and Bobby had to keep Sam's uncoordinated movements from sending the three of them to the floor in a tangle of arms and legs.

As they moved across the room, it seemed to Sam that the floor undulated and shift under his feet. "The floor keeps moving, Dean. Why won't the floor stop moving?," Sam mewled, his head hanging weakly and bobbing slightly with each step.

"We're gonna lay you down, Sammy," Dean asserted. "The floor will stop moving once you lay down."

Bobby and Dean gently settled Sam on the edge of the bed before helping him to stretch out; the oldest hunter placing the last of the clean, dry towels under Sam's oozing and inflamed right arm. This was Dean and Bobby's first good look at Sam's condition since they'd found him collapsed on the floor and it was truly concerning.

Sam's forehead was creased with lines of discomfort and distress as his head rolled aimlessly on the lumpy motel pillow. Vivid, plum-colored bruises now mixed with the roses and yellow-greens of Sam's healing bruises, the lot of them standing out against his ashen skin in a crazy mosaic of colors. Sam shifted uncomfortably on the bed, his rolling, unfocused eyes at half-mast and his pained whimpers maturing at times to agonized moans.

"Shh, Sammy," Dean soothed as he ran his hand through Sam's damp hair then allowed it to slowly drift down the side of his face. "We're here now. It'll be ok."

Sam rolled his head into Dean's touch and sighed. "My arm hurts," Sam whimpered, his thin voice lazily slurring from one word to the other. "It's throbbing so bad, I can't stand it. I can't get it to stop hurting, Dean." A hint of desperation had flooded Sam's voice and it cut into Dean's soul.

_Oh, God, Sammy. Look at you. You never should have taken off like that. I know it hurts. I'm __gonna fix it. It'll be better. I promise. _Dean's hazel eyes blazed as Bobby returned his gaze. "I know it hurts, buddy. Just try to relax. Bobby and I are gonna get you to a doctor. The doc'll fix it right up; get it to stop hurting."

"No!," Sam screamed as he began thrashing and fighting in earnest. "No, gotta save you! Gotta get the book!"

Dean and Bobby reached out, restraining Sam and pushing his struggling form back down on the bed. Sam squirmed agitatedly under their hold and his breathing roughened into harsh pants. A light wheeze could be heard drawing out at the end of each rough breath and Dean could see the muscles over Sam's unnaturally prominent ribs straining slightly with the effort. Sam had always been lanky and lean, but he was just plain thin now. He'd lost a lot of weight since their ordeal began in the woods and his skin no longer covered strong, bulging muscles but simply lay over sharply jutting angles.

"Ok, ok," Dean tried to console. "We'll get the journal, but we've gotta get the doc to fix you up first."

"Gotta get it," Sam wailed as distressed tears started tumbling down his pale cheeks and he renewed his struggling. "Gotta break the deal. Can't leave me." Sam's breaths hitched as he began to sob quietly. "God, it hurts so bad. Please make it stop, Dean."

"Alright, Sammy, alright. No doctors. Now, shhh," Dean placated softly, glancing at Bobby with unwavering determination on his face. "We're gonna make it better. Bobby and I are gonna fix it, ok? Then you and I can go after the journal together, right?"

"Promise?," Sam mewled quietly, his large, damp eyes looking up at Dean beseechingly just as they did when he was a young child.

"I promise, Sam," Dean declared softly, using his younger brother's preferred 'Sam' to punctuate the seriousness of his intentions. "I'll help fix you up and then we'll go after Colt's journal together, ok?"

Sam's head nodded slightly as the sobs slowed and he sighed heavily, as though the weight of the world had suddenly been removed from his shoulders. _My big brother's here. He's gonna make __everything better. Dean always makes everything better._

"Dean...," Bobby called out flatly as he motioned with his head for Dean to step away from the bed and his younger sibling.

Dean had walked a short distance from his little brother when Bobby grabbed him by the shoulders and spun him around. "What the hell do you think you're doing?," Bobby spit out venomously.

"What? I'm just trying to reassure him, Bobby...let him know we're gonna fix him up. Look at him! He needs that reassurance right now."

"What he _needs," _Bobby asserted, "is a hospital! Didn't you see that arm?!"

"Hell, yes, I saw it!," Dean growled lowly, glancing towards Sam who still shifted uncomfortably on the motel bed. He hoped that Sam wasn't able to hear what was being said. "But arguing with him is only making matters worse...upsetting him...making him resistant. You said it yourself. The more we argue with him, the less cooperative he's gonna be. There's got to be something you can do for him here."

"Dean, that wound is infected. I'm not sure what we can do for it. It's not like either of us is a doctor."

"We've got to do something, Bobby. He's my brother." Bobby's heart clenched in his chest as tears welled in the younger man's eyes, dampening his long lashes and threatening to spill onto his cheeks. "Isn't there_ something _you can do?"

Bobby's brow furrowed in sympathy and he glanced over Dean's shoulder at the younger sibling, pained winces creasing the boy's face and the first hint of fever coloring his cheeks. "Yeah," Bobby breathed out tiredly as he patted the side of Dean's face with a large, calloused hand. "Yeah, I suppose I've got something we can try."

Dean's eyes blinked shut in relief and Bobby moved his hand from Dean's face, cupping it around the back of his neck instead and pulling him into himself. He gave the stressed boy a quick embrace and a few pats on the back before pushing away. "Keep an eye on 'im while I go get a few things we'll need."

As he prepared to step through the battered motel room door he looked back. Dean had already returned to Sam's side and was sitting on the edge of his bed, tenderly running his fingers through Sam's hair and talking quietly to the restless hunter.

"The things I do for you two," Bobby grumbled affectionately.

**-:-:-:-:-:-:-**

Dean flashed another look at his watch and frowned. Alone in the hushed room with the distressed Sam, it occurred to Dean that he was once again seated helplessly at his brother's bedside. It seemed to occur all too often and it angered him that he was able to offer nothing more for his brother's suffering than a soft touch and quiet words.

The contact and assurances had worked well enough at first, but it was nearly an hour and a half since Bobby had left and those simple techniques had long since stopped working. There had been periods when Sam's weary body had pulled him into a fitful sleep and Dean had begun to hope that Sam wasn't so much ill as he was exhausted. He'd even begun to think that maybe all that Sam really needed to restore his health would be a few days of rest.

But Dean's hopes gradually dimmed as he watched Sam's increasingly agitated movements. The simple touches were no longer calming the young hunter's erratic rustling and a deepening flush was washing across Sam's cheeks.

Dean hurriedly rummaged around the uncharacteristically disheveled room until he'd found a small, plastic ice bucket and then filled it half-way with cool water from the bathroom spigot before returning to Sam's side. Placing it on the nightstand, Dean dipped a washcloth into the bucket, wrung most of the water from it and lightly traced the damp cloth across Sam's forehead. The younger boy groaned softly at the touch and turned his head into the frosty comfort it offered.

Dean was troubled by the light sheen of sweat that glimmered on Sam's skin, but it was the chaotic and disordered condition of Sam's room that bothered him even more. Even at his sickest, Sam had always been nearly compulsive about maintaining neatness, almost to the point of obsessiveness. Where Dean just stuffed his clothing into his bags, Sam carefully folded everything and stacked it precisely in his duffel. Dean would often leave his bed rumpled and unmade while Sam always took the extra few minutes to straighten his bed in the mornings, making certain to fold crisp, precise, hospital corners into the linens. In the bathroom, Dean would drip a wide, slimy trail of liquid soap from the dispenser all across the counter, splash water onto practically every surface, leave sloppy globs of toothpaste to congeal on the outside of the tube, as well as the bowl of the sink and the hand towel wadded into a bunch that he'd jam haphazardly back onto the towel rack, if he even bothered to make an attempt at placing it where it actually belonged. In contrast, Sam would never leave without wiping down the counter, the sink basin and the chrome fittings and a tube of toothpaste in Sam's care was neatly rolled from the end, just the precise amount of paste needed carefully and cleanly squeezed onto his brush. The washcloths and hand towels were always neatly refolded and arranged back in place, each of them hanging so that the edge of each one was at the exact same level as its matching piece.

To see the room in such a mess, Dean knew that Sam was sick; not just sick, but _really_ sick. Frightening thoughts began a horrible parade through Dean's mind. _What if we can't get the infection turned around? What if this was what Dr. Hartzell had warned them about? Was Sam going to fight __so hard to live in the face of the snakebite, only to lose the war to some bacteria you can't even see with the naked eye? Worse yet, can I live with the fact that I practically helped Sam commit suicide? __**I **__was the one that__ arranged for Dr. Harzell to do nothing but simply clean out the wound instead of doing the amputation that was recommended. If Sam dies, it'll be my fault._

The distinctive rumble of the Impala pulled Dean from his anxious musings as Bobby pulled up in front of the room and cut the engine. It had taken him a while, but Bobby had finally returned with the supplies they would need to care for Sam and Dean felt the weight of worry that he'd been carrying lift just a little. Bobby was finally back and now they could do at least a little something to help his brother.

The screech of the driver's door opening and then closing was followed by several minutes of silence before Bobby pushed his way clumsily through the motel room door. Bobby's arms encircled a large cardboard box and several plastic shopping bags rustled lightly as they dangled from his fingers. Setting the items down on the small counter in the kitchenette, Bobby turned and looked at the two boys. Dean was in nearly the same position as he'd been when Bobby had left, but the lines of concern on his face had deepened.

"How's he doing?" Bobby knew it was a stupid question. If he couldn't see it in the set of Dean's face, he could see it written all over his younger sibling. It was hard to imagine it was even possible, but Sam looked worse than he did when Bobby had left for the supplies. The boy's health had clearly deteriorated in the days since he'd disappeared from the hospital back in California and his condition now appeared to be taking a nosedive. Between the condition of his arm, all of the stress of traveling and God only knew what else he'd run into, Bobby sensed that Sam was teetering on the brink of disaster.

"He's pretty out of it. Talked to me some at first. He wasn't able to string enough together to tell me what all has been going on the past few days. Mostly just told me he feels like crap."

"I wouldn't doubt it. He's exhausted and as flushed as he looks, I'd say it's a safe bet he's workin' on a fever."

"Yeah," Dean agreed, looking down at his brother's prone form with even more concern. "We've got to keep an eye on his temp, Bobby. You know how Sam gets."

"Don't think I'll ever forget." Bobby dug the new first aid kit from the cardboard box and tossed it to Dean. "The kid goes from zero to burnin' up in nothin' flat, as I recall."

Dean popped the top on the small kit and pushed several items aside in his search for the oral thermometer. As far as Dean was concerned, the battery operated, digital thermometers they had today were a far cry from the ancient mercury style to which their Dad had unerringly turned. It had always been a struggle getting a young Sam to keep quiet long enough to get an accurate reading.

"Sam. Sammy," Dean called softly as he gently shook his younger brother's left shoulder. "You need to wake up, Sam, so I can take your temperature."

Sam stirred weakly and squinched his face in irritation before settling back into a quiet stillness.

"Come on, bro. No choice. We need to know how sick you are. Now wake up so I can check your temp." Dean prodded at Sam's left shoulder another time.

Sam shrugged his shoulder away in annoyance. "Don...wanna. 'M tired an' m' arm hurts."

_Oh, yeah. If I didn't think you were sick before, I know it now. A sick adult Sam turns into a pouty, whiny, child-like Sam._

"Bobby and I are gonna make it feel better but we need to know what your fever is first."

Sam whined in protest, but then complied with Dean's request by opening his mouth. "That's good, Sam. Now just keep your mouth closed around it while I hold it for you."

On the other side of the room, Bobby had spread open a dilapidated and dog-eared book in front of him. The hard-back binding had long since fallen apart and the tattered pages had turned varying shades of yellow and brown and mysterious stains spotted the fragile pages. A large rubber band lay nearby, clearly Bobby's mechanism of choice to prevent the rickety binding from losing its tenuous hold on the many loose pages. The tell-tale beep of the thermometer chimed from Sam's bed and the old hunter looked up from the herbs and fresh-cut plants he was assembling.

"Hundred and one point two," Dean declared gravely.

"That's awful close, Dean," Bobby reminded the younger man nervously. More than once, the older hunter had seen what fever in the hands of Sam Winchester could do. One-hundred one point five seemed to be Sam's boiling point and, once past that threshold, his body went into overdrive, the fevers always rising dangerously high and dangerously fast despite all efforts to prevent it. "At a hunnert and one point two, Sam isn't exactly givin' us a whole helluva lot of wiggle room."

"Yeah, I know. I started sponging him a little while you were gone but I don't think it's helped all that much. He's getting pretty flushed already."

"Why don't you try getting him to take some Tylenol while I get started with this," Bobby suggested. "The Tylenol should help to keep his fever down until it cools enough for it to be applied."

**-:-:-:-:-:-:-**

Dean helped Sam to struggle down a few Tylenol and sat on the edge of his bed, gently stroking his fingers through Sam's sweat-dampened hair until his renewed whimpers softened and his breathing evened out. Assured that his little brother was sleeping, Dean rose from his spot on Sam's bed and crossed the room to where Bobby stood, occasionally stirring at a steaming pot that rested on the room's small stove. There were fresh herbs and plants spread out everywhere and the older hunter frequently consulted his tattered book as he sorted through them, breaking off sprigs of this and chopping up sprouts of that.

"_This _is what you were gone so long about? A bunch of roots and berries?"

"Hey," Bobby began defensively, "you try finding all this stuff in the middle of nowhere...and the desert, to boot."

Dean's expression softened and he regretted the rather accusatory tone he'd taken with his friend. He understood that Bobby was doing his best to help his baby brother. The stress of chasing after Sam for all those days and the worry it had caused him had worn Dean to a barely contained frazzle, but it wasn't any excuse to start rounding on Bobby.

"Look, I'm sorry. It's just...**.**" Dean's voice faded off as Bobby gave him an understanding nod and shrug of his shoulders. Dean stood and quietly watched the older hunter for several minutes before his voice once again sliced through the overbearing silence of the room. "You sure this Naked Chef routine of yours is going to work?"

Bobby looked up from his work and saw the uneasy expression on Dean's face. He gave momentary thought to saying something soothing like 'I'm sure he'll be fine' or 'Sam's strong'. In reality, though, Sam was incredibly weak and every time Bobby looked at him he was shocked at the change the past six days had caused in the boy. The truth was, Sam looked bad and the wound was looking even worse. In the end, Bobby decided it was better to be gentle but straightforward. After the emotional minefield Dean had been through, giving the boy false assurances of rosy outcomes wouldn't be doing him any favors if Sam's health only continued to deteriorate.

"I ain't sure of nothin'...'cept that Sam's pushed himself beyond the breaking point."

Bobby saw a shadow of pure terror flash in Dean's eyes as he digested the veiled message behind the older hunter's words. Without saying it, Bobby was telling him that Sam might be so close to the brink that _nothing _would be able to pull him back. A shudder passed through Dean and he willed away the thoughts, instead turning his attention to the pot that simmered in front of him. He tentatively peeked over the rim at the kettle's dark, roiling contents but drew back quickly with a disgusted look and coughing roughly when some of the steam billowed into his face.

"God, Bobby! That smells like ass. What the hell are you putting in there?"

"This is a decoction of White Oak bark. It'll be the base for the second step in a three step process."

"And just what are we going to do with this concoction?," Dean queried, a wary look creeping onto his face.

"Not _**con**_coction, Dean," Bobby corrected. "It's a _**de**_coction. That means I'm boiling down, or decocting, the bark of the White Oak to extract the bark's beneficial juices. It's a long-standing Native American practice. And since you're here, I could use your help. Hand me that jar, will ya?"

Dean grabbed a nearby jar that was already filled halfway with a turbid amber liquid and handed it to the older hunter, purposefully keeping it as far from his nose as possible. The liquid didn't appear all that pleasant looking and, after his run-in with the oak bark, Dean wasn't taking chances of getting a whiff of anything he might regret.

"So what's in the jar?," Dean asked suspiciously. "And I swear to God if you tell me it's something like fermented buffalo pee or something, you're on your own."

Bobby chuckled openly and grabbed the oldest Winchester by the back of the neck and gave him a friendly shake. "No. It's not fermented buffalo pee," Bobby growled disapprovingly before pausing just long enough for Dean's posture to relax and then a devilish glint sparked in the older hunter's eyes. "It's fermented _horse_ pee."

"Oh, gross," Dean exclaimed as he ran to the sink, flipped on the tap and started scrubbing furiously at his hands. "Oh, that's just wrong!"

"Relax, Dean," Bobby chortled. "I'm only yankin' yer chain. The only things in that jar are apple cider vinegar, lots of fresh-squeezed raw garlic juice and some essential oil of Patchouli. Now get over here and give me a hand."

Dean moved back hesitantly, his eyes flashing from the jar to Bobby's face trying to ascertain if the older hunter was lying about the benign nature of the jar's contents.

"OK. Now we want to finish filling that jar with some of the bark 'tea' but we don't want any pieces of the bark in it. If you can hold that sieve over the jar, I'll ladle the boiled bark into it and we'll strain off just the 'tea'. When it cools we'll be set to go."

"And just what is this supposed to do?" Dean asked as he watched Bobby pour the tea through the strainer.

"The oak bark tea, apple cider vinegar and raw garlic juice are all natural antibacterials - nature's infection fighters. I threw the Patchouli oil in for good measure. Asian tradition says it's an antidote for poisonous snakebites. Figured it couldn't hurt."

"Well, you said this was step two," Dean reminded. "What's step one?"

Dean could feel the blood drain from his face as Bobby's demeanor became serious and his eyes flicked nervously towards Sam's restless form on the bed.

"Nuthin' you or Sam are gonna like," Bobby quietly admitted.

The almost haunted look in Bobby's eyes sent a shiver down Dean's spine. Bobby reserved that look only for times when things were going to get ugly; reserved it for times when he knew that Dean wasn't going to like what he had to say.

"Dean, we get messin' around with that wound...It's not gonna be a walk in the park for Sam. That guy back at the hospital...Clarence? You know how much pain he said Sam had been in after his dressing change...and that was done with pain meds on board. To make matters worse, the wound's inflamed and infected now. The pain's only bound to be worse than at the hospital and we don't have anything better than the Tylenol and Motrin you found in Sam's bag. We've got to have a way to deaden the nerves while we scrub out the wound and dress it with a poultice."

"Why can't we just ice his arm down really well? That ought to numb it up." Dean remembered his Dad using that method on several occasions when he and Sam were young.

"Thought of that, too. But Doc Hartzell said the circulation to Sam's fingers wasn't all that good. We go icing that arm and we're gonna clamp those vessels shut even more and lose what little circulation we've got goin' for us. The only other option I can see is cayenne pepper."

"Cayenne pepper? I don't know, Bobby. Isn't that gonna burn like hell?"

Bobby's head bobbed up and down in silent confirmation. "I know it seems barbaric to put him through that amount of pain. But it's gonna be far less barbaric dealin' with the cayenne for the twenty or thirty minutes it'll take to numb the nerve endings, than it would to dig around in that wound without it. If we're gonna have any hope of turnin' that infection around, we can't do a half-assed cleanin' job."

Dean's eyes turned to his brother. Sam's cheeks were still flushed and he seemed to be whimpering in pain more frequently. _God. How can I do this to him? How can I knowingly do something that's going to cause him more pain? He's already been through so much._

Dean walked over to Sam's bed and settled on the edge of it. He grabbed the wet washcloth and traced it's soothing dampness gently across Sam's warm forehead. His eyes cast over Sam's exposed right arm, areas of green-yellow pus and darkened tissue were starkly outlined by the wound's swollen and angry red edges. Sam's eyes remained closed as he stirred uncomfortably and a low moan slipped from his lips. Suddenly, everything was clear in Dean's mind. He had to do whatever it took to save his baby brother...even if it meant causing him pain in the process.

Turning to Bobby, Dean uttered just two words. "Do it."

* * *

**To be continued...**A/N: I may be a lot of things, but an herbalist isn't one of them. In coming up with Bobby's remedies, I consulted several sources, including some Amish neighbors, about home cures for infections, wounds and pain relievers and combined some of the more interesting ingredients from a handful of "recipes". I wouldn't suggest trying it out on your next cut, though, since I have no idea if it would even work or, worse yet, do more harm than good.

* * *

The chapter title, "Sick as a Dog", is a track from Aerosmith's 1976 album, "Rocks". The song is rumored to refer to a less than wonderful first meeting between Aerosmith's Steven Tyler and the Rolling Stones' Mick Jagger.


	7. Theatre of Pain

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing relating to 'Supernatural' or its characters except my own sick fantasies. As always, this chapter is un-beta'd and all mistakes or WTF's are my own.

**A/N: **This chapter briefly mentions a hunt for a Loup Garou (pronounced – loo-ga-roo) that Bobby and Caleb joined forces for. A Loup Garou is, according to Cajun folklore, a werewolf-like creature that's said to inhabit the swamps and bayous of Louisiana.

I also want to take the time to extend an apology to everyone for the long delay in posting this chapter and to my reviewers for not being better at responding to your kind comments. Rest assured, I appreciate every one of them more than I can ever say. It's just that real life has had me by the neck lately.

* * *

**Atrox**

**Chapter 6: Theatre of Pain**

"You sure about this, Dean?" Trepidation colored every one of Bobby's words with a nearly palpable unease. Trying to treat Sam's large and badly infected wound with archaic, bygone methods that were, at best, unreliable in their effectiveness held so many possibilities for disaster that it had the older hunter practically squirming with apprehension. Bobby Singer had been hunting long enough to have seen far too many good men die and he was damned sure he didn't want to watch another. "We can still take Sam to a hospital. Probably oughtta, if you ask me."

Dean looked from his friend's apprehensive face and imploring eyes to where Sam lay on his bed, shuffling softly in discomfort. Ambivalence weighed heavily on Dean's thoughts as he watched his baby brother. Just in the amount of time it had taken to prepare the three herbal mixes, Sam's moans had become louder and more frequent; his movements more agitated and uncomfortable. _Maybe Bobby's right. Maybe I should just pack his ass into the Impala and drag him, kicking and screaming, if necessary, into the nearest ER. Trying to deal with this on our own is just plain nuts. Sure, he'll be mad as hell at me for doing it, but at least he'll be __**alive **__to be mad as hell._

He looked back to Bobby and the tired sadness and uncertainty the seasoned hunter saw in Dean's eyes caused a lump to form in the older man's throat. It saddened the older hunter that the Winchester boys had known more moments of physical and emotional pain in their lives than they had moments of happiness. But, before Bobby could figure out what to say, Dean had already turned and walked the short distance to his brother's bedside and settled softly next to him.

"Sam. Sammy," he called quietly. Not garnering any response, Dean gently clasped Sam's left shoulder and shook him lightly. "Come on, bud. I need you to wake up."

Sam squirmed under his brother's touch, a loud, pained moan accompanying the movement. His eyes rolled under their lids and long seconds ticked by before those same heavy lids slowly rose to reveal glassy slits of muted green.

"Dean?" Sam's voice was rough and little more than a whisper as he blinked up at the face before him. He remembered wishing that Dean were here, but he couldn't remember ever calling him. When did Dean get here? How did he find him? Sam's thoughts were coming in a confusing rush and his head was pounding viciously. "Dean. Wha-...? How...? You're here?" Sam sighed heavily in relief and his eyes slipped shut again. _Thank God. I'm too tired to do this alone anymore. I just can't do it alone..._

"Sam, you've got to help me get you up and dressed," Dean prodded. "I need to get you to a doctor."

Sam's eyes opened again and looked around blearily, bewilderment clear on his features. His eyes traced lazily over every surface in the room before returning to his brother's face. "The...the journal. Did I...? I don't remember...We didn't find the journal...yet...did we?" Sam dragged his left hand across his forehead, trying to force back the headache so that he could think straight.

"Don't worry about the journal," Dean asserted gently as he brushed Sam's damp bangs out of his eyes. "It's a wild goose chase that you're too sick to worry with right now. We've got to get you to a hospital."

Sam stared up at Dean, his eyes searching Dean's face for long moments before his expression changed and his body tensed noticeably. Gone, was the exhaustion and fever-tinged haziness in Sam's eyes, slowly being replaced by the dawning clarity of apprehension and alarm.

"No," Sam whispered. "No...NoNoNo...I can't."

"Your arm looks really bad and you've got a fe-..." Dean's words were bitten off when he saw Sam jerk away from his touch as he extended his hand to feel the younger boy's forehead.

Dean reached towards his brother again and Sam pushed away, a pained whimper forced out by the sudden movements. A combination of confusion and anger crossed Dean's face. "What the hell, Sam?"

Dean knew it had come out far too loud and far too angry sounding when he saw Sam recoil once again from him. Only, this time, his efforts to move away didn't stop and Sam's eyes shone bright with the unmistakable glint of fear.

"No...stay away from me," Sam mewled breathlessly as he pushed himself until his back hit the unforgiving obstruction of the bed's headboard. "Can't go...Can't go with you...You're not him."

"Sammy?"

Dean edged closer but stopped when he saw his brother's heavy breathing, wide, frightened eyes and desperate attempt to jam his six-foot-four frame deeper against the headboard and into the smallest ball possible. "No! You're not him! You're not him!"

Dean turned suddenly towards Bobby, real fear flashing in his eyes. "Bobby? What the hell's going on? What's he mean, 'You're not him'?"

Bobby shook his head quickly, his eyes flicking worriedly at the youngest hunter as he hunched fearfully at the head of the bed. "I...I don't know. Maybe his fever's up?"

"But I gave him the Tylenol," Dean asserted like a wrongly chastised child.

Bobby had no other ideas and only gave the young hunter a shrug and a helpless 'What else can I say' tilt of his head. Dean scowled irritably. They needed to do something to move beyond their current position of stagnant and useless hypothesizing; move on to something, _anything_, that might motivate Sam into going along with the program.

"Hand me that T-shirt, Bobby. I don't know, maybe if I can get him started..."

Bobby passed a clean T-shirt to Dean who slowly unfolded it and laid it out on the bed in front of Sam, careful not to get too close and further agitate him. The younger sibling's eyes followed every one of Dean's movements with suspicion, his whole body tensed and prepared for flight.

"Go ahead, Sam. I won't touch you. You can get dressed on your own and then we can go."

"I won't go with you! I...I don't know what you are, but you're not him," Sam screamed as he pushed to his knees and tried his best to get his weak and exhausted muscles to adopt a defensive posture. "You...You're a skinwalker...or a demon...or s-something using my brother's face...but...but you're not Dean! Get away from me!"

The combination of Sam's verbal tirade and physical preparedness had quickly sapped what little adrenalin rush he'd experienced and his body sagged suddenly back to the bed, the headboard of the bed the only thing preventing him from toppling helplessly to the floor. He leaned tiredly into it, his head hanging low, and sobbed disconsolately.

"You're not my brother. Dean promised he'd help me. He promised we'd get the journal together. Dean never breaks a promise. You're not him...you _can't _be him...you're not my brother."

"Oh, God," Dean breathed out as he sat back and looked at Bobby helplessly. Bobby had known the Winchester boys for many years and it was clear to him, just by the hurt look that was etched into Dean's features, that, although Dean understood that they were fevered-induced and confused, Sam's words had still stung deeply. The older sibling appeared as though his heart had been ripped from his chest and dashed into a million tiny pieces on the floor.

Things were going to hell in a hand basket and it was obvious that Sam wasn't going to let anyone near him if things didn't change...and soon. That was when Bobby decided to step in.

"Sam? Sam?" Bobby slowly inched closer to the worn-out younger Winchester. He needed to gain Sam's trust and couldn't risk him perceiving his movements as threatening.

Sam's head came up at the sound of Bobby's voice and he peered at the older man as though he hadn't been aware he was there. His cheeks were flushed and his skin glistened with sweat.

"Bobby?" The sound was incredibly small and filled with despair.

"Yeah, Sam. It's me. It's Bobby."

Singer tapped at Dean's shoulder with the back of his hand and when he knew he'd gained Dean's attention he pointed to the thermometer that still lay on the bedside table. Silently waggling his fingers with his palm up, Bobby indicated that he wanted Dean to hand it to him. As he took the thermometer from Dean, he continued on.

"You trust me, right kiddo? You know I'd never do anything to hurt you, right?"

The haze of fever had returned to Sam's eyes and he blinked laggardly as his sluggish brain considered the hunter's words.

"Bobby..."

It had only been one word, but the relieved sigh that it was breathed out upon told Bobby he, indeed, still held the boy's trust.

"I need to check your temperature. Is that ok?"

Sam's head had already drooped and he answered only with a small, silent nod of his head.

"Ok, good. Here," Bobby crooned quietly when Sam once again raised his head, lifting the thermometer into place under the boy's tongue. "Now close your mouth around it. That's it. This won't take very long. We'll be done here in no time."

He continued to speak, soft and reassuring, until he heard the insistent beeps that indicated the thermometer's job was complete. Bobby slipped the instrument from it's place and peered intently at the LCD display.

"Whad'you say it was last time, Dean?"

"Hundred and one point two. But that was before he took the Tylenol." Dean checked his watch. "Tylenol's been on board for a while. Ought to be down pretty good by now."

Bobby peered down at the digital thermometer that he clutched in his calloused and grease-stained hand.

"No matter what we're plannin' to do...doctor or not...we better be doin' it fast. Fever's _up_...to a hunnert and three point eight."

"Dammit," Dean growled as he turned his attention back to Sam.

The younger boy was still curled against the headboard, shivering lightly, his head bobbing occasionally as he struggled to stay awake and vigilant. Sam's bloated and inflamed right arm lay limply at his side, the muscles he'd been strengthening having long ago been overwhelmed by the prolonged activity and become rebellious in their refusal to continue supporting the limb. Dean's heart clenched as he leaned a bit closer to his baby brother and Sam's eyes watched him warily. It just wasn't right that his brother was afraid of him...and it was all his own doing.

"You're right, Sam. I _did_ promise to make you better and go looking for Colt's journal. And I'm promising you right now that I won't back down from that promise. I'm your brother and you've got to know I'd do anything for you, man."

Silent moments passed between the men as they simply held each other's gaze, Sam searching for that intangible something that would tell him that the man in front of him really _was _his brother. Sam's brow creased and tears welled in his eyes as he leaned forward into Dean's chest.

"It really is you...I'm so sorry, Dean...I never shoulda left you...'m sorry I left you...God, 'm just so tired...so tired..."

"Shh, it's ok, Sammy," Dean murmured as he wrapped his arms around his brother. He could feel the heat radiating from Sam's skin and the ever increasing burden of his brother's weight as the younger boy gave into his exhaustion. Without letting go, Dean turned and looked determinedly at Bobby.

"Get whatever hoodoo it is that you cooked up over there 'cause I _am _Sammy's brother and I'm _not_ breaking any promises...and Sammy's _not_ getting any worse."

Bobby disappeared in the direction of the tiny kitchenette while Dean helped his now pliant and easily manipulated younger brother to rearrange his mutinous and gangly limbs to a more comfortable position. Dean assisted Sam so that he could once again stretch his impressive height comfortably along the length of the bed, albeit, to a position were his feet dangled helplessly past the end of the bed.

"When we get a room the next time, Sammy," Dean requested of his barely conscious sibling, "remind me to to get one Queen and one Sasquatch."

Sam tiredly raised his head from the pillow and stared at his brother with a rather confounded and vacuous expression. "Huh?," Sam grunted dumbly, Dean's attempt at defusing his own tension by using snarky humor having clearly been more than Sam's foggy brain could process.

"Nevermind," Dean replied dismissively as he patted assuringly at Sam's left arm and watched as the younger boy's head sunk wearily back to the pillow.

Bobby had strode back with a small bowl of orange-red powder in his hand and was standing near the right side of Sam's bed with an expression on his face that Dean could only describe as appearing vaguely guilty. Bobby had admitted that the application of powdered cayenne onto Sam's wound would be intensely painful and Dean knew it was taking every ounce of mental and emotional strength Bobby possessed in order to be the purveyor of that agony.

Dean's eyes met Bobby's and they held the other's gaze for long seconds as each man took strength from the other. Dean gave a small nod of affirmation and slipped lightly from where he sat on the edge of Sam's bed. He dropped to his knees next to the bed, shuffling until his body was even with his little brother's chest. Sam peered up at him with complete faith shining from his fever-ruddied face, all traces of his earlier distrust erased by the knowledge that it truly was his brother, Dean, at his side.

"Sam," Dean began, his tone authoritative, yet apologetic at the same time. "We can't wait any longer to clean that arm up." He gestured towards Sam's lax right arm, bile creeping its way up the back of his throat at what they were about to do. "Bobby has some stuff that'll help to numb it..." _God, I _**so **_don't want to do this._

"_..._but I'm not gonna lie to you, little brother, it's gonna hurt like hell for awhile." _How whacked is this whole, stupid mess that we have to hurt him just so we can take __**away **__his pain​?_

Sam weakly nodded his head, but the way he stared blankly up at his older brother, the lids of his distant, glassy eyes blinking unnaturally slowly, Dean wasn't certain he'd understood the words as much as he just felt an instinctual need to respond to him. _Dammit! At this point, you're so sick I could have told you I was going to dress Bobby in a pink tu-tu and have him dance 'The Nutcracker' for you and you would have agreed that it was a great idea._

Dean smirked at the visual his thoughts had given him and then shot a quick glance in Singer's direction, fearful that the man might have somehow known what he'd been thinking. Sam shifted slightly on the bed, almost as though he was preparing for the pain that was to come, and Dean's attention was drawn back to him.

"I'll be here with you, little bro," Dean assured. "Ok, Bobby." _Do it now. Do it before I change my mind. Before I have time to think about how __**wrong**__ it is to be hurting my baby brother._

Bobby moved in closer to Sam's right arm, pulling a chair from the rickety dinette set in the room's tiny kitchen along with him. He settled onto the seat, nervously clutching the bowl of cayenne powder in his hands.

"Dean," he muttered quietly. "You're probably gonna have to hold him down." Dean nodded silently and shimmied his position again so that he could hunch even closer to his little brother's bare chest. Bobby ladled out a large scoop of the powder and paused. "Alright, Sam, here we go."

The grizzled hunter quickly sprinkled the first scoop of cayenne over the wound then hurriedly dipped the small ladle back into the bowl, scooping and spreading its contents until the entire wound was heavily coated with the terracotta-colored powder. Next, he gently laid thick gauze squares over the layer of powder before finally covering everything lightly with a white cotton towel. When the application was complete, Dean relaxed back and eyed Bobby with a puzzled expression.

"I don't get it, Bobby," Dean admitted. "I thought that was gonna hurt."

It wasn't like Dean _wanted_ the procedure to cause his little brother any pain, it just confused and unnerved him that it hadn't. Did that mean the treatment wasn't going to work? Sam had left them no choice but to take care of the wound outside of a hospital. In order to do that, they _really_ needed the herbal remedies to do their jobs.

"Why isn't it working, Bobby?"

Bobby stared, wide-eyed, at his patient. He wouldn't necessarily say Sam looked comfortable, but, then again, he hadn't looked comfortable since they'd found him passed out on the bathroom floor. The only other time that he had been forced to use cayenne as a numbing agent, Bobby had received an instantaneous response from the poor sap to whom he was giving aid. Never before had someone seemed so utterly unaffected by the pungent herb's caustic power. Bobby's face twitched into a scowl of uncertainty.

"I...I'm not sure, Dean."

"You're not sure?"

Dean's voice seemed to have ratcheted up an octave, making him sound more like a pre-pubescent boy than the grown man that he was. There _was_ one thing that Bobby wassure of, and that was that Dean was on the verge of losing what little composure he'd managed to regain after spotting Sam's bloodstained clothing on the motel room floor. The change in Dean's voice was something that only ever seemed to come over Dean whenever Sam's health or safety was concerned and Dean was close to blind panic.

"I thought you said this stuff works!"

"It _does_," Bobby shot back irritably. "At least, it did in the past!"

"Well, it's not working _now!" _

"Alright, alright. Just pipe down, boy. Let me think a minute."

Bobby's eyes roamed the small room looking for anything he'd forgotten, anything he'd missed; looked for any reason the treatment didn't seem to be effective. He pulled the ball cap from his head in exasperation and scratched at the crown of his head.

Sam could feel the first tiny embers of discomfort as they smoldered along the length of his right arm. Mostly he noticed it because the stimulus felt so different from the throbbing pain he'd almost grown accustomed to over the past few days or so. This sensation was different, though, because Sam couldn't actually call it 'a pain'. It seemed to be more like a buzzing or a tingling and it's sudden appearance confused the young hunter.

Dean bowed his head and reached a burly hand up, rubbing at the tense muscles in the back of his neck. When he looked back up, he noticed that Sam's eyes were still open but his forehead had creased into a rather uncertain and questioning look. Seconds later, the younger boy flexed his right knee until it rose just slightly off the bed and then straightened it back out stiffly.

"I used the same kind of dried peppers as I've used before. Same application method, everything. Maybe their effectiveness has do to with how they're grown," Bobby theorized, his attention completely captivated by the seeming ineffectiveness of his treatment.

As Sam lay there trying to get his muddled mind to understand what was happening, he was aware that the tingling was growing in its intensity, to something more of a zealous prickling. Sam shuffled his upper body lightly against the sharpening sting in hopes that the movement would help to alleviate his discomfort.

"When I used cayenne before," Bobby went on, not noticing the squirming of the youngest hunter, "Caleb and I were down Louisiana way chasing through the bayou after a Loup Garou. It nearly had Caleb cornered, 'til he pulled one of those damn fool kamikaze-samurai-ninja warrior things he'd always try turnin' to when the shit _really_ hit the fan. Thing is, his hare-brained idea worked, too, but not before the little runt got himself tore up but good by the Garou's claws."

Sam tried to rearrange the position of his right arm but if felt weighted down and the muscles seemed too weak to move it. He struggled again to lift the arm but the effort only increased the needle-like sensation assaulting it.

"We didn't have a lick o' supplies, but for the guns we were carryin'. Lost it all, medical supplies and everything, in the black water of the swamp when that son of a bitch Garou ambushed us. We managed to finish 'im off and slogged through the bayou 'til we found a ramshackle cabin and broke in. Couldn't find much of any use 'cept an old sewin' kit, 'til I noticed an old tin of cayenne pushed to the back of some broken up cupboard. I remembered a grizzled up ol' Cajun who once told me it made a dandy anesthetic. Didn't have nuthin' else to use so I figured, what the hell. Nuthin' to lose in tryin' it, you know?"

Bobby smiled crookedly at the memories and let out a soft chuckle as he fondly remembered their fallen hunting friend, Caleb.

"The Garou mighta been gone but nobody woulda known it the way Caleb started howlin' when that cayenne hit his wounds. I dunno, maybe it worked better back then because it's got somethin' to do with where the cayenne's grown," Bobby postulated while he rubbed at his scruffy beard in concentration. "Could be it's more potent when it's grown in the silt of the Mississippi River Delta."

Dean noticed his brother squirm softly again, watching as the younger boy's eyes then scrunched shut with a sharp grimace. Within moments Sam's eyes had snapped back open and the fingers of his left hand worked at the bed's gaudy-patterned coverlet.

Before Dean could say anything about what he had seen, a soft gasp from Sam's bed brought Bobby's ruminations to an abrupt end. The younger Winchester's legs skittered purposelessly across the surface of the bed and he rolled his head back and forth on the pillow in distress. He pulled and twisted at the huge knot of bedspread fisted tightly in his left hand and his breathing had turned rough and choppy. An earnest sweat had replaced the fine sheen of earlier and the flush of Sam's cheeks had deepened considerably.

"You said you wanted this to work, Dean. Well, you best be ready, boy," Bobby admonished urgently as his eyes skimmed over the anguished boy. " 'Cause it looks like our rough ride's just beginnin'."

Dean moved closer to the bed and clasped his left hand over Sam's left forearm, marveling at the way the muscles bunched and coiled underneath his touch. He ran the fingers of his right hand through Sam's tousled hair to try to comfort him as the boy continued to toss and turn and a choked, "Oh, God..." fell from Sam's lips.

"I'm here, Sammy," Dean soothed as his fingers continued to trace a path through his younger brother's hair. "We're gonna get through this together. You and me and Bobby. Just like that 'Three Musketeer's' book you were always reading as a kid. 'One for all, and all for one', right?"

Dean had never taken the time to read the book, but he had seen Sam gazing longingly at a copy when they'd hunted an angry spirit in a huge, old public library in Lincoln, Nebraska. Dean gave up his cherished peanut M&M's for six weeks just so he could save enough money to get Sam a copy of his own. Sam had been ecstatic at the gift and had devoured the story of the three devoted and inseperable men, Athos, Porthos and Aramis, and their friend D'Artagnan; reading and re-reading the novel until the pages were tattered and dog-eared. The book had traveled with Sam wherever he went ever since, always carefully packed between layers of clothing in Sam's duffel for safekeeping.

"It's ok, Sam. It's ok." Dean tried to sound confident and soothing but the way Sam's eyes were thrown wide and roamed the room wildly, he knew his words weren't really getting through to his brother. "I know this hurts, Sammy, and I'm so sorry. I'm _so _sorry."

Dean laced his fingers through Sam's, trying to ground the younger boy as his agitated movements continued to intensify. He could tell by the distant look in Sam's glazed eyes that his little brother still wasn't comprehending what he said, but he continued to talk to him anyway. He hoped that, even though Sam wasn't understanding the words, maybe just the sound of his voice would soothe him.

"It'll be ok, Sammy. This is gonna numb it up, but it's gonna hurt for a little while first. I'm sorry, Sammy. I wish it didn't have to hurt."

Sam's escalating movements threatened to send the struggling young man plummeting from the bed. Dean shifted in even closer to his brother, slipping his left arm firmly across Sam's chest in an effort to prevent him from further hurting himself. He hated that his little brother was suffering and, judging by Sam's increasingly violent writhing, the torturous burn of the cayenne wasn't even close to abating. Dean flashed guilty, questioning moss-colored eyes in Bobby's direction as he leaned even more weight onto his brother's contorting form.

"How much longer is he gonna have to endure this, Bobby? I'm not sure how much more he can take." _I'm not sure how much more _**I **_can take._

A look of unbridled panic settled over the youngest Winchester's face and his body arched stiffly off the bed, muscles straining, cording under his skin like bands of steel as he clawed and struggled against Dean's hold. Sam reached out and his face took on a deeper shade of flushed crimson as an anguished scream crashed harshly past his lips. "NO!"

**ooo000ooo**

Sam could hear voices murmuring next to him but he couldn't be concerned with listening to the words because the irritating prickling along his right arm had already matured to a smothering warmth that threatened to ignite into something so much worse. Sam twisted against the growing torment, a sharp intake of air hissing across his lips as his muddled brain struggled to comprehend the sensations flowing around him.

The youngest Winch writhed again as muffled sounds continued to slither and undulate around him. Somehow, he knew the sounds were words, but he couldn't make them out; his attention captured completely by the overwhelming rush of intense heat that flashed up his right arm. There was something familiar about that feeling. Something familiar, yet terrifying.

The feeling was something that stirred memories from deep within him. Over time, those memories had been buried, carefully tamped down and deprived of nourishment, but they had stubbornly refused to die. Now, with the increasing heat, the memories bubbled forth uncontrollably, sparking to life with a vivid clarity that shattered the thin veneer that prevents past memories from intertwining with current reality.

Sam tossed his head back and forth, his nostrils flaring and his eyes darting frantically across the ceiling above him as he wrestled in his older brother's firm yet tender hold. As he moved, he could feel a weight settling on him. It seemed that the more he scrambled and floundered underneath it, the heavier the weight became until he was all but pinned down.

Sam felt the first fingers of flames licking at the skin of his right arm and he gasped at the sight before his eyes. He bucked and twisted against the restraining weight and the blistering heat. He had to get up; had to get there in time. He couldn't allow it to happen again. He reached his left arm up, his hand beckoning in wild desperation as the flames fed, hungry and untamed, on everything in their path. Just as he met the limit of his reach and felt the feather-light touch of her fingers, the inferno erupted in a holocaust of roiling oranges and reds that completely engulfed the room. "NO! JESS! NOOOOOO!"

**ooo000ooo**

"OH, GOD! NO!"

Sam's body writhed beneath Dean, the sudden surge of strength from his exhausted body surprising and nearly overwhelming the older sibling's hold. Bobby pushed aside the chair he'd been seated in and grasped onto Sam's thrashing legs. At that moment he couldn't say what hurt him more, the anguished and confused cries of the youngest Winchester for his dead girlfriend or the silent, but no less anguished, tears that tracked down Dean's cheeks.

"It's ok, Sam. I'm here. I've got you," Dean murmured near Sam's ear. "You're safe. I've got you and you're safe."

"Dean? Dean, please," Sam begged as he latched onto Dean's arm with a death grip. "It burns! My arm's on fire! The flames...they're everywhere! Please! She's...Jess...she's...Oh, God, we've got to save her!"

Sam's body bucked viciously and sent Bobby sprawling onto the floor nearby. As Dean turned to check on the older hunter, Sam's left hand swung out blindly and connected with the right side of Dean's face. The punch had landed awkwardly but still had enough power behind it to make the room wobble hazily for a few seconds.

"You've gotta hold him, Dean," Bobby yelled as he scrambled to once again gain control of Sam's legs.

Dean shook his head, quickly wiping a hand across his chin to mop at the blood pouring from his split lip. "I'm trying! You just do _your _job old man, and I'll do mine!"

"Dean! Please, we've got to save her! Jess! Jess! The flames...! Oh, God. We're gonna burn to death! I'm on fire! My arm's on fire!"

Sam's eyes bulged wide as he stared at his right arm in horror. The flames were crawling up his arm and he jerked the limb and swatted at it with his other arm in an effort to smother the inferno.

Dean dove back to his spot at Sam's side, laying his whole weight into Sam's thrashing form. "Sam! Sam! Stop it! It's not real! The fire...it's not real!"

"Get ahold of his left arm, Dean! We can't let him tear that right arm up any more than it already is!"

**ooo000ooo**

The anguished cries and violent thrashing had gone on for nearly an hour before they had finally died away and Sam had stilled. Dean wasn't certain if it was sheer exhaustion that had ended it all or whether the cayenne had finally overwhelmed the nerve endings in Sam's right arm, numbing them to the herb's continuing burn.

Either way, Dean was just glad it was over. Seeing his baby brother hurting and not being able to do anything about it was about the worst thing he could imagine. He hoped the herbal anesthetic would work well enough to allow he and Bobby to cleanse the wound without putting Sam through any further pain.

The drainage from the wound had dampened the cayenne powder enough that simply pouring some of the cider vinegar, garlic juice, Patchouli oil and oak bark 'tea' over the damaged tissue was able to wash most of it quickly and easily away.

It wasn't nearly so easy with the tenacious areas of thick, festering goo that hugged the crevices of the yawning wound and it took an additional hour of painstaking work using the 'tea' solution to clean Sam's arm.

Working together, Bobby and Dean had had to use the Q-tips and gauzes to gently dig away the viscous slime of infection. Beneath some of the worst areas, the pair found pockets of desert sand that Sam's own ministrations had failed to budge. These areas required extensive cleansing that often elicited pained groans from Sam, despite the application of the cayenne.

Sam writhed underneath Dean's hands and a loud moan cascaded across his lips as Bobby worked at cleaning out the last, but largest, of the pockets of pus. As the older hunter turned and tossed a few more disgusting gauzes and Q-tips into the trash, Dean loosened his grip on Sam and, sitting back on his haunches, blew out a long breath and rubbed his sweaty palms across the legs of his jeans before scrubbing at the headache forming behind his eyes. The non-stop stress of the past week was really starting to get to him.

"How much longer, Bobby? The cayenne doesn't seem to be working all that well anymore."

Bobby could see the distressed look on Dean's face and knew that he was having a tough time dealing with the condition of Sam's wound.

"The cayenne's not workin' as well here because of all of the pus," Bobby explained. "Kept the cayenne powder from gettin' down to the tissue where it could numb it good. I've just about got it all now, so try to keep it together for me...for Sam...a little bit longer, 'kay?"

Dean took a deep breath and nodded his silent assent before resuming his position at Sam's side, one arm draped over Sam's bare chest, the other hand lightly stroking at the chestnut curls of hair that sprung at the ends of Sam's sweat-dampened hair. As Bobby continued his work, Sam became more and more aware until, finally, his eyelids fluttered open.

"Hey, Sammy," Dean called out quietly as Sam shifted under him again. "We're almost done, ok?"

Sam didn't have time to respond as Bobby had already started working a 'tea'-soaked Q-tip into the worst looking part of the wound, the portion of his hand where the snake's venom has done the most damage. His jaw muscles spasmed tightly and Dean felt his sibling's body tense as the older hunter's ministrations probed over the raw and inflamed tissues. Sam's nostrils flared and his breathing quickened as he struggled to maintain control.

"Oh, God," he gritted out through his clenched teeth as pain flared through his hand and shot up his forearm. He fumbled at the bedclothes with his left hand for a few seconds before he felt Dean slide his own hand into his and squeeze a reassurance. "Ahhh. Son of a...uhh, that hurts, Bobby!"

Bobby pulled the Q-tip from the wound and, seconds later, a thick stream of foul-smelling, yellow-green pus dribbled out. Dean buried his nose in the shoulder of his shirt and swallowed hard to hold back the contents of his stomach. Quickly composing himself, he turned back to comforting his little brother.

"Not much longer, little brother. Almost done."

"Sorry, Sam," Bobby apologized. "Try to hang in there while I get the rest out."

Bobby carefully guided another Q-tip into the wound and tried to trace it as lightly across the tissues as he could. Sam hissed in pain and arched against Dean's restraining arm. Even more pus rolled out as Bobby removed the cotton-tipped applicator from the wound and then flushed the area with a small amount of the oak bark 'tea' mixture.

"Stop, please!," Sam begged as tears slid down his reddened cheeks. "Oh, my God, that hurts so bad!"

"I know, Sam. I know," Bobby commiserated, his own pain at hurting the boy etched into the lines on his face. "But I've got to do this. Got to get it clean."

Bobby saw Dean strengthen his hold on Sam as he prepared to cleanse the wound with yet more 'tea' and another Q-tip. As the older man worked, Sam bit at his lower lip and strained against the pain until it was finally too much and he cried out.

"Stop! Please, stop! My arm...Oh, God...Dean! Dean, please make it stop! Dean!"

Bobby pulled the Q-tip from the wound and quickly splashed more of the 'tea' over the entire hand and forearm. "We're done, Sam! We're done. That's it. No more. I'm all done."

Sam collapsed back onto his pillow, his breathing fast and harsh. His cheeks burned with a vivid ruddiness that stood out starkly against the pallid, colorless skin of his sweat-soaked face. Dean embraced the boy and could feel him shaking in his hold as he whispered softly to him.

"It's over, Sammy. We're done. We're all done. No more, ok buddy? It's over..."

* * *

**To be continued...**

* * *

A/N: 'Theatre of Pain' was the name of a 1985 album by the American rock band, Mötley Crüe. Considering how hard Sam's confused and fevered words hit Dean emotionally and how much agony the herbal treatments caused Sam, I figured the tiny motel room truly was a "theatre of pain".


	8. You Gotta Move

**Disclaimer: **If I owned the Winchester's I wouldn't share them, so be glad they belong to Kripke.

**The Road So Far: **Dean and Bobby finally catch up with Sam at a two-bit motel in a remote, mountain area of Idaho. Finding Sam passed out on the bathroom floor of his room with a raging infection, Dean and Bobby resort to herbal medicine in an effort to save Sam's arm and his life.

* * *

**Atrox**

**Chapter 7: You Gotta Move**

Bobby pulled the Q-tip from the wound and, seconds later, a thick stream of foul-smelling, yellow-green pus dribbled out. Dean buried his nose in the shoulder of his shirt and swallowed hard to hold back the contents of his stomach. Quickly composing himself, he turned back to comforting his little brother.

"Not much longer, little brother. Almost done."

"Sorry, Sam," Bobby apologized. "Try to hang in there while I get the rest out."

Bobby carefully guided another Q-tip into the wound and tried to trace it as lightly across the tissues as he could. Sam hissed in pain and arched against Dean's restraining arm. Even more pus rolled out as Bobby removed the cotton-tipped applicator from the wound and then flushed the area with a small amount of the oak bark 'tea' mixture.

"Stop, please!," Sam begged as tears slid down his reddened cheeks. "Oh, my God, that hurts so bad!"

"I know, Sam. I know," Bobby commiserated, his own pain at hurting the boy etched into the lines on his face. "But I've got to do this. Got to get it clean."

Bobby saw Dean strengthen his hold on Sam as he prepared to cleanse the wound with yet more 'tea' and another Q-tip. As the older man worked, Sam bit at his lower lip and strained against the pain until it was finally too much and he cried out.

"Stop! Please, stop! My arm...Oh, God...Dean! Dean, please make it stop! Dean!"

Bobby pulled the Q-tip from the wound and quickly splashed more of the 'tea' over the entire hand and forearm. "We're done, Sam! We're done. That's it. No more. I'm all done."

Sam collapsed back onto his pillow, his breathing fast and harsh. His cheeks burned with a vivid ruddiness that stood out starkly against the pallid, colorless skin of his sweat-soaked face. Dean embraced the boy and could feel him shaking in his hold as he whispered softly to him.

"It's over, Sammy. We're done. We're all done. No more, ok buddy? It's over..."

**ooo000ooo**

**30 minutes later**

"Please, Bobby," Sam begged wearily, "don't do any more...please."

Sam looked up at the elder hunter with a beseeching look on his face and tears brimming at the edges of his reddened and puffy eyes. Bobby certainly couldn't blame the boy for pleading his case. He'd given Sam a half-hour break, but he'd been through hell. With the torturous burn of the cayenne and then the cleansing of the wound, the young hunter was just plain exhausted - emotionally, spiritually and most certainly physically.

As much as he wanted to give into Sam's demands, Bobby knew that their job wasn't quite completed. After all, what use would it have been to put the boy through the agony of scrubbing out his wound if they didn't do something to try to stop the infection in its tracks?

"I know you're tired and you're hurtin', Sam," Bobby assured, "but we have to do this last step. After your brother and I get this poultice in place, you can rest."

Sam sighed softly, allowing his head to fall back onto the pillow and his eyes to slip shut resignedly before nodding tiredly in understanding. He just wanted to get this all over. He had been pushed to his limits and could feel his body trembling uncontrollably under the strain. A strong squeeze of support and comfort gripped Sam's left forearm and he opened his eyes to see his brother staring down at him, the older boy's eyes shining with concern.

"You hang in there, Sammy," Dean assured. "Bobby says this last part won't be so bad."

"That's right, Sam," Bobby agreed as he handed Dean a small bowl of spinach-like goo and a clean, white towel that was large enough to cover the entire length of Sam's wound. "Spread a nice, thick layer of that out all over that towel, will ya, Dean?"

The elder Winchester wrinkled up his nose at the stringy, green mess in the bowl before setting it aside and unfurling the folded towel on the edge of his little brother's bed. As Dean set about the assignment that Bobby had given him, Bobby turned his attention back to his young patient.

Picking up another small bowl, Bobby saw Sam flinch away and he knew the boy was fearful that his pain hadn't yet ended. "It's alright, kiddo," Bobby explained as he held the bowl at a level where Sam could see the contents inside. "This is just granulated sugar. Does a dandy job of drawing out infection...and the best part is, applying it shouldn't hurt."

Sam gave Bobby a weak smile that he hoped would convey confidence in what his trusted friend was telling him. The wary and anxious look in Sam's eyes, though, clearly told the older hunter that the boy wasn't completely convinced. There was only one way to convince him and that was just to get on with the job.

Bobby tipped the bowl and gently shook it back and forth over Sam's right arm, making certain to apply an even coating as the granules slipped softly and silently onto the wound. Gradually, the tension in Sam's muscles disappeared and he watched Bobby with large, curious eyes as he worked.

"That looks pretty good," Bobby declared as he laid the bowl of sugar aside and looked over at Dean. He watched with an amused grin as Dean used his fingers to swirl the green slime into place on the towel with the drama and flair of a world-reknown artist.

"You all set over there, Picasso?"

Dean looked up suddenly, holding both hands up and grinning proudly like some kindergärtner who was discovering the joys of finger painting for the first time.

Bobby chuckled at the way Dean was mugging for laughs. Now that Dean knew the worst of the treatment was over for his baby brother, he had relaxed noticeably and the playful nature he hid so often was peeking through. It amazed Bobby but, somehow, Dean always seemed to be able to find humor in just about any situation. Bobby supposed that was the only way the boy had managed to stay sane through all the years of pain and tragedy.

"Oh, you're quite the artist alright," Bobby asserted rather sarcastically. Dean's grin widened even further and he shot Bobby a look of smug satisfaction. "Now just hand over that poultice. Your brother ain't got all day, here. I'm pretty sure he'd like to get a little shut eye after all of this."

The mention of his exhausted little brother made Dean jump like someone had lit a fire under his ass and he quickly handed the gooey towel over to Bobby's waiting hands.

"Ok, Sam...I'd hazard a bet that arm's not gonna put up with much warmth, so I let this cool to room temperature," Bobby explained. "It shouldn't be more than a few minutes before you start feelin' the arm quietin' down."

Bobby supported the laden cloth with his right hand and forearm and carefully slid his arm alongside Sam's right arm, making certain not to jar the angry wound. Lining himself up with the wound, Bobby lightly placed the lower edge of the coated towel against the lower edge of the wound. Steadying the fabric with his left hand to prevent it from flopping onto the area too quickly and causing Sam any unnecessary pain, the elder hunter rolled the poultice up and over the wound on the underside of Sam's forearm and palm.

Sam's upper lip curled slightly in discomfort as Bobby lightly prodded the poultice into position with his fingertips. He hated making Sam so uncomfortable but he needed to ensure that the herbal salve would come into contact with all areas of the injured tissues.

Dean took a quick whiff of the green glop that was still stuck to his fingers before wiping them off on another towel. "And what did you say this stuff was, old man?"

"Just a simple mix of crushed comfrey and plaintain leaves. While the sugar draws out any infection that we couldn't reach, the comfrey and plaintain will help to soothe the wound and promote tissue healing."

"That's it, Sam," Bobby announced as he finished smoothing the last edge of the poultice into place, then sat back and snatched the ever-present ball cap from his head. He ran the back of his arm across his forehead before replacing the cap to its previous location, his hand then slipping down and giving Sam a few quick pats on the leg. "You get some rest now, boy. You earned it. We'll be right here if you need us."

Bobby gave Sam's leg another reassuring pat before standing and stretching out his aching back muscles. Sam's eyelids had drooped shut almost immediately after Bobby had proclaimed the end of his ministrations, the exhausted young man falling quickly into a heavy slumber. Dean had yet to move from his position at his brother's side, staring intently at Sam's sleeping form and standing vigilant like some devoted guard dog.

Bobby leaned across the bed and nudged Dean's left shoulder with the back of his hand.

"Come on, I'll make us somethin' to eat. He ain't gonna be doin' nothin' but sleepin' and he'll be doin' _that_ for hours. You can continue your Rin-Tin-Tin routine after we get you some grub."

Dean nodded silently and stood. He looked once more at Sam before turning moist eyes to his long-time friend.

"Sounds good, Bobby. Thanks."

The words were simple, but Bobby understood the true complexity of their meaning. Dean wasn't just thanking him for a meal. Dean was thanking him for being there for Sam, for helping to care for his baby brother; he was thanking Bobby for loving them...the both of them.

**ooo000ooo**

**The next afternoon**

Sam was sitting up in the bed with his back resting against the headboard and his long legs stretched out along the bed in front of him. His eyes were staring at the bedspread beneath him but they really didn't register the obnoxious mix of colors or the garish pattern printed on the cheap fabric. Instead, his mind was a million miles away, occupied with dour thoughts about the morning's events.

Sam had wanted to get out of bed. Most especially, he had wanted to take a shower. It had been days since he'd been able to bathe properly and he was beginning to feel as though his skin was crawling. While Bobby had at least been willing to entertain the idea of a shower, Dean had immediately bristled at the mention of Sam even leaving his bed and had completely refused to consider the shower. No amount of arguing on Sam's part, no explaining that he felt cruddy, itchy, filthy and otherwise completely disgusting, had budged Dean's opinion. And when Sam continued to push for a reason why his older brother was so adamantly against the notion, Dean had fallen back on an age-old tactic of proclaiming that he didn't need to give a reason because just being the big brother meant that he was always right and always knew what was best.

His older brother's stubborn inflexibility and his "because I said so" attitude had rankled Sam and left him feeling as though he was being treated like a three year old child. Of course, Dean's self-righteous grinning and smug chuckling hadn't helped matters and Sam had soon found himself helplessly sinking into a petulant funk.

The sulking had finally pushed Dean to agree to a compromise and he had brought his little brother some supplies so that he could freshen up at his bedside. Sam had given the effort everything he had, but his right arm had been so uncoordinated and uncooperative that he'd struggled just with the simple task of sponging himself off. In the end, Sam had been reduced to the humiliation of needing to ask Dean to help him complete the job.

Sam's fumbling attempts had frustrated him and requiring Dean's help to finish such a basic task had been incredibly embarrassing. Being incapable of caring for himself certainly hadn't done much to rid him of the feeling of being a dependent child and had only served to cement Dean's opinion that it was much too early for Sam to be out of bed. The most disconcerting aspect for Sam, though, had been the realization that, while the condition of the wound had been improving, the arm's function had really not.

Back at the hospital, Sam had had no doubt that the use of his arm would return. But now he was faced with physical evidence that suggested otherwise and the thought of never regaining any meaningful use of the arm had hit hard. It hit so hard that Sam just couldn't seem to stop thinking about it and he'd been brooding for hours. As he rested there against the headboard of the bed, the dire implications of the uselessness of his arm caused a shudder to pass through his body.

Dean had been surreptitiously eyeballing his little brother ever since Sam's failed attempt at bathing had caused him to tumble into a depressive gloom. He watched his little brother's every move and every expression, analyzing each one for signs of any deterioration in Sam's health. He'd seen the shiver that had just wracked his brother's thin frame and he immediately retrieved the thermometer from its place on the nightstand next to Sam's bed. Sam caught the movement in his peripheral vision and it snapped him out of his bleak thoughts. Looking up, he found Dean standing next to him with the digital thermometer in his hand.

"Again? Geez. You're gonna kill the batteries in that thing and Bobby only just got it a couple days ago."

"Just humor me. Ok?"

Sam sighed heavily and shot Dean an irritated and long-suffering look, but opened his mouth to comply with the request. As Dean's hand rose to place the thermometer, Sam's mouth suddenly slammed closed and his left hand shot out, clenching Dean's arm firmly around the wrist.

"Sam, what the hell?" Dean's eyes searched the younger boy's face for any clue to his mysterious behavior.

The younger Winchester stared, wide-eyed, at the vividly colored and sharply outlined linear marks spaced nearly evenly on a transverse path along Dean's forearm. Sam turned Dean's arm until its underside faced up, his brows crinkling into a deep furrow as his eyes took in an equally purple bruise of a slightly stubbier length.

The sight, and realization of the bruising's origin, stole the breath from Sam's chest and a huge knot formed in his throat. "Dean..."

Refusing to meet Sam's imploring gaze, the elder Winchester wrenched his arm from his brother's grasp and quickly pulled the partially rolled sleeve of his button-down back over the area. Dean mentally kicked himself for not remembering to keep his sleeves down, knowing full well that Sam was bound to make an issue of the bruising if he caught sight of it. He hoped to head it off by intentionally skirting the subject.

"Oh, no way, pal. You're not getting out of it that easy. I saw you shivering and..."

Sam batted Dean's arm away as it rose once again to present the thermometer. "How...? I did that to you, didn't I?"

"Sam." _Please, Sam. Just let it drop. _Dean abandoned the thermometer and was now making a show of fussing with the medical supplies that were still spread out on the table next to Sam's bed, arranging them neatly in order of their use. He could feel Sam's eyes boring into his back and prayed for some sudden diversion.

"Dean's right, son," Bobby inserted quickly, noting Dean's tense and discomforted posture. "If you're shivering, we gotta check your temp."

The older hunter retrieved the thermometer from where Dean had dropped it and moved towards Sam's side.

"No, Bobby," Sam bit out harshly. "That bruising on Dean's arm...it's a hand print! And the split lip; they're both my fault, aren't they? I did that to Dean!"

"Well...um...he...you see..." Bobby floundered for any way to defuse what was quickly becoming a full-blown Winchester guilt-fest.

"And what if you did, Sam?," Dean questioned exasperatedly. "What if the bruising and busted lip _are _your fault? It doesn't mean a damned thing. You were so out of it, you didn't know what you were doing!"

"I was hurting you! That's what I was doing!" Sam's eyes flashed with anger, both at himself for injuring his brother, but mostly at Dean and Bobby for allowing it to happen. The thought of what he'd done pushed a lance of guilt through him and his voice came out in a whisper. "Dean, why didn't you stop me? Why would you let me hurt you?"

Dean sighed deeply and his shoulders sagged under the weight of his confession. "Because you needed me, ok? You're my baby brother and you needed me."

Sam nodded silently and looked away, the moisture in his eyes threatening to spill over onto his cheeks. "Now you understand," Sam murmured quietly, "why I _have _to find Colt's journal."

Dean looked questioningly at Bobby. The older hunter's brows rose along with his shoulders in a 'he's got a point' sort of shrug. Dean frowned in indecision before offering a compromise.

"Ok, Sam. You win. I'll give in a little if you will, too. You agree to stay put in bed and take care of yourself for just a while more and I'll agree to..."

"You'll agree," Sam interrupted, "to hit the road again once my temperature is under a hundred."

"I'll agree," Dean growled menacingly, "to you _getting out of bed_ when your temp is under a hundred. You maintain that or better for twenty-four hours and we'll _talk _about hitting the road."

"I maintain it for four hours and we hit the road," Sam countered.

"_Twenty_-four."

"Four."

"Twenty-four."

"You're being unreasonable, Dean."

"Am not."

"Are, too."

"Am not."

"Are..."

"TWELVE!," Bobby bellowed as he shook his head in disbelief, the Winchester boys' eyes wide in shock. "Dean, Sam's temp dips below a hunnert and he's allowed outta bed. Sam, your temp stays that way for twelve hours, and I mean twelve _consecutive _hours, and we'll hit the road. Agreed?" Bobby's stressed out gaze bounced between both boys as each one grudgingly agreed to his plan, Sam with a sullen "Yeah" and Dean with a slight, but oh-so-petulant nod of his head. "Good."

Dean snatched the thermometer from Bobby's hand and held it up in front of Sam. As the younger Winchester opened his mouth to accept it, Dean muttered under his breath, "Am not."

"Auu foo," Sam responded, the words coming out unintelligibly garbled as Dean quickly shoved the thermometer into Sam's mouth.

**ooo000ooo**

**Four hours later**

The shrill beeping of the thermometer sounded and Sam reached up, snatching the instrument from his mouth before Dean could even reach for it. He peered at the LCD display, then tossed the thermometer on the bed, swung his legs over the side and pushed to stand.

Before he could rise, one of Dean's large hands flashed out, settling on his shoulder and pushing him back down onto the soft surface of the bed.

"And just where do you think you're going?" Dean's glare was stony and disapproving.

"Aw, come on, Dean! I'm tired of being in this bed." Sam was going stir-crazy just lying around having nothing to do but think about his arm and the search for Samuel Colt's journal and it was resulting in a case of full-on little brother whining. He desperately wanted to get back to the business of trying to find that journal and lying in bed, doing nothing, wasn't getting him anywhere. If he was going to strengthen his weakened body enough to hit the road again, he'd have to get up and out of bed and moving.

"And I thought we agreed you weren't getting up until your temp was below a hundred?"

Sam reached behind himself and picked up the thermometer from where he'd discarded it on the bed. With a self-satisfied grin on his face, he held it up with the display towards his indignant older brother.

"Read it and weep, Florence Nightingale. Ninety-nine point nine."

Dean opened his mouth to protest but Sam had already pushed himself to his full height, swaying slightly as he slowly and carefully made his way from the bed to the kitchenette on decidedly rubbery legs. Dean followed behind, clearly keeping himself close enough that he could prevent Sam from taking a hard fall should his legs give out.

"Look, Sam," Dean argued, "I really don't think this is a good idea. When I agreed to under one hundred, I thought..."

"I don't care what you thought. Ninety-nine-nine is under a hundred, Dean. We both agreed to a temp under one hundred and it is. So here I am," Sam stated as he settled gingerly onto one of the kitchen chairs, "and here is where I intend to stay."

"You're splitting hairs, Sam! I don't really care what that thermometer says. You're still sick and you need your rest."

"I can rest when I'm dead, Dean! I have things I need to do!"

"What? That damned journal again? You're still on some stupid suicide mission for a journal we can't even say for sure exists!

"And you can't say that it doesn't! I need that journal, Dean. I thought you understood that I can't lose you."

"And I thought you understood that I need _you._"

"Ok, ok! That's enough out of the both of you!" Bobby had physically inserted himself between the two warring Winchesters. Sam might very well have been the sibling to end up with the label of 'stubborn', but Winchesters by their very nature seemed to inherit more than their natural share of those genetics and Dean was no exception. "Dean's right, Sam. Your body needs some time to heal..."

Dean straightened himself to an even greater height with Bobby's acknowledgment of the validity of his statements and a smug grin slipped across his face. He crossed his arms in front of him as though he dared Sam to challenge him and adopted an 'I told you so' posture.

"But, as long as you don't over do it, I think it's good that you're out of bed."

Sam peered up at his older brother, his eyebrows arched in a 'ha, ha' expression and his head waggling side to side in a mocking manner.

Dean's arms dropped to his sides in dejected defeat. "But..."

"Sam's fever is down and the arm is looking pretty good. It's his mobility, particularly in the hand, that still ain't all that great. There's somethin' I want to try and it'll be easier to do here at the table." Dean looked mildly annoyed at being voted down and opened his mouth to say something when Bobby cut him off. "Don't worry, boy. I'll be keeping the _both _of you on short leashes."

**ooo000ooo**

**Ten hours later **

"How're you doin', Sam? Think you can tolerate another five or ten minutes?"

Sam's teeth were tightly clenched and he hissed as Bobby's beefy fingers probed a particularly sensitive area in the palm of his right hand. The fingers of his left hand were gripped so firmly around the edge of the small kitchen table that the knuckles had gone white and Sam had begun wondering if he'd be leaving finger-shaped dents in the table's surface.

Bobby had already done this additional treatment several times before, each session wearing down Sam's pitifully short energy reserves and sending him back to his bed. It was during the periods that Sam returned to his bed that Bobby had alternated his treatments and given the wound a good cleansing with the oak bark 'tea' and then applied more of the comfrey and plaintain poultice.

Bobby had explained that the comfrey and plaintain helped to draw out the infection. This newest treatment, massaging the area around the wound with a mix of crushed aloe and cinnamon, was designed to increase circulation within the tissues. If they could increase circulation, they hoped they could also increase the function of Sam's hand.

So far, the treatment hadn't seemed to be helping in the least, despite the price that Sam was paying for trying it. His right arm thumped relentlessly now, unless, of course, you took into consideration the times when Bobby was actively massaging it. At those times, it just felt like someone was repeatedly shoving heated needles underneath his skin and then adding insult to injury by rubbing the arm around on a bed of broken glass.

Sam nodded his head roughly to Bobby's question and then ground out through his gritted teeth, "If it'll finally get...the hand...moving again, yeah, I can last...ahh, damn...a little longer."

Hearing Sam's invective, Bobby suddenly stopped his gentle kneading of Sam's index finger and looked up in surprise. "You felt that?"

"Hell, yes, I felt that," Sam hissed. "Think you could go just a bit easier with those meat hooks you call hands?"

Dean set the gun that he had been breaking down onto the table and peered anxiously back and forth between his brother's face and his hand. "You're sure you felt that?"

"I said I did, didn't I?" As far as Sam was concerned, they'd been messing with this herbal hoo-doo, rehab thing for long enough and this latest marathon session had sucked the energy right out of him. The lack of improvement had only proven to add to Sam's frustration and crankiness. Not a blessed thing had changed. His hand was still useless, he was still stuck sitting in a shitty, hole-in-the-wall motel hundreds of miles from his goal and as long as Dean and Bobby insisted on playing nursemaids, the journal, and quite possibly Dean's salvation, could be slipping further and further from his reach. Sam's irritated glare shifted from his brother to the older man in front of him. "It feels like Bobby's doing his damnedest to rip the flesh right off the bones."

"Sam, that's great," Dean exclaimed as he laughed deeply and curled Sam into a bear hug, slapping him roughly on the back.

"Maybe you think it is," Sam grumbled as he extricated himself from his brother's overly-emphatic embrace. "But I'm not exactly seeing what part of 'hurts like hell' is all that great."

"No, Sam," Bobby laughed heartily. "Your brother's right. This _is _good. I've worked this area before." Bobby carefully circled his stubby finger in the air over Sam's hand near the base of his index finger. "And this is the first time you've felt it. I think we're finally seeing some payoff from all of our hard work."

Sam looked back at his hand as it rested passively on the tabletop. Using every ounce of his concentration, he willed the tortured fingers to move. As had happened since he was back at the hospital in California, Sam's ring and pinkie fingers curled slowly into a loose fist while the thumb, index and middle fingers remained stubbornly immobile. Sam continued to push until the effort sent a searing pain ripping up his arm, overwhelming his resolve, and he dejectedly allowed the fingers to unfurl laxly.

Sam sat for several seconds, allowing the pain to return to a more manageable level before making a second attempt. He could see the hopeful and expectant looks on Dean's and Bobby's faces as he bore down with everything he had, a guttural growl rolling out between his clenched teeth with the resurgence of the biting pain. Beads of sweat sprung across Sam's forehead, dampening his chestnut bangs to a dark chocolate color as he continued to strain his uncooperative muscles. He _had _to get the muscles moving again.

The fingers still refused to budge and Sam drove himself even harder, hunching towards the table with the added effort. It wasn't long before he felt the room grow suddenly too warm and he clutched desperately at the table's edge with his left hand as his vision grayed in and out. The room shifted nauseatingly and he swallowed thickly several times. His appetite was still nearly non-existent and Dean had been riding him hard to eat better. If he lost the small amount of food he'd managed to consume so far today, that would give Dean one more thing to hassle him about.

Sam pushed until he could push no more and, just as he was on the verge of passing out, he finally admitted defeat, collapsing limply against the chair's back, sweat dripping from his face and his breaths coming in tortured huffs. Although the flashes of electrical charges that buzzed up and down his arm were agonizing, the look of disappointment that blossomed on Dean's face stung even more. Dean had seemed so certain that the area of renewed feeling in Sam's hand was a harbinger of dramatic change in the hand's ability to function. Sam hated that he was, once again, a source of disappointment to his older brother, but it was now blatantly obvious that he was never going to use his right hand again. The sooner that Dean realized and accepted it, the better.

"It's no use, guys," Sam puffed out breathlessly as he repeatedly opened and closed the fingers of his left hand. He'd been gripping the table edge so hard, for so long that he needed to work the stiffness from the joints. "It's pretty clear," Sam continued as he held his left hand up, still waggling the stiffness from the fingers, "this is the only hand movement I can ever hope for."

"You're giving up?," Dean questioned incredulously. "You just got more feeling back and now you're gonna give up?"

"_I'm _not giving up, the _hand_ is. I can't move it, Dean. The hand, the fingers; they're useless and that's just the way it's gonna be."

"That's the way it's gonna be?! Well, hell yeah," Dean acquiesced bitterly, "if you quit working at it, of course, that's the way it's gonna be. Winchesters aren't quitters, Sam."

"Don't you think I'd move it if I could?!" Despondency had honed a hard edge into Sam's tone and the eyes he turned towards his brother burned with anger. "I can't, Dean! I tried and I can't!"

"What's _wrong _with you?," Dean bit back accusingly. "The Sam _I _know works for what he wants. Works until he gets it, no matter how hard it is or how many setbacks he has along the way. God, if Dad were here he'd be tearing strips from..."

"Don't! Don't you dare bring Dad into this," Sam hissed menacingly. "I c_ould be_ working for what I want but, instead, I'm sitting here, screwing around, letting Bobby rub glorified weeds into my lifeless arm!" Sam lifted the arm four or five inches from the table with his left hand before releasing it to thump heavily back to the table's surface, his anger completely numbing him to the pain the abuse had caused. "It's futile and if we'd just cut this crap, we could go find that journal!"

"That _crap _saved your arm! It saved your life when you were half-dead from infection! I can't believe you're acting like this! I ought to kick your ass! You owe Bobby more than you'll _ever_ be able to repay him!"

Sam rubbed at the bridge of his nose. The physical and emotional stress was really starting to take its toll and Sam could feel a vicious headache trying to blossom behind his eyes.

"I'm sorry, Bobby," Sam whispered softly without looking up. "I didn't mean..."

"I know you didn't, son," Bobby assured. "You've been through a helluva lot and I think your brother and I just need to back off."

"What? We can't just let him quit. How's he gonna..."

"Drop it, Dean," Bobby ordered. "Sam's right. If he can't move it, he can't move it. There's no sense beatin' a dead horse. We'll hit the road as soon as we can get the gear pulled together."

Dean's mouth fell open at Bobby's statements. There was no way he was just going to drop something as important as this. He wasn't going to let Sam give up on rehab'ing his arm just to chase down some fairy tale. Sure, he'd promised to help Sam look for Colt's journal but he hadn't said anything about letting his little brother stop caring for himself along the way.

"No, I'm not gonna drop it! I don't get you two! Without that arm Sammy is vulnerable! We're in the middle of a goddamned demon war! How is he going to be able to protect himself?!"

"And how are you going to protect yourself from that deal, Dean?! And, anyway, I'll be fine. I've got you watching my back."

"And what if I'm not there?! How are you going to protect yourself if something happens and I'm not there to watch your back?!"

Sam opened his mouth to counter Dean's argument when Bobby cut him off with a loud bellow. "ENOUGH!" The older hunter's menacing glare flashed back and forth between both Winchester boys. "We're done. This argument ends here. Got it? I've had just about as much of you two as I can handle! Dean, you're coming with me. Sam, while your brother and I double check the medical supplies and get them packed, could you have a go at checking the arsenal?" Bobby placed several of their guns and various boxes of ammo on the table in front of the younger Winchester. "You know, make sure they're clean and the magazines are loaded with the rounds we might need."

"Yeah, sure, Bobby," Sam whispered tiredly, reaching out with his left hand and sliding his Glock across the tabletop towards himself.

"Come on, Dean," Bobby growled softly, grabbing the young hunter by the arm and tugging forcefully when Dean didn't immediately make a move to follow.

Bobby dragged the older Winchester across the room to the bedside stand where the older man began sorting through the various herbs, shifting their positions on the counter according to each herbs' importance and making mental notes of which herbs he'd need to replenish in the next few days.

"I can't believe you'd let him get away with that, Bobby," Dean snarled angrily. "He needs to keep pushing that hand or it's not..."

"Get the bees out of your bonnet and calm down a damn minute," Bobby barked quietly as he watched over Dean's shoulder as the younger sibling struggled with one of the guns with just his left hand. Sam had shoved the gun's clip between his knees and was attempting to push the rounds into the spring loaded magazine with the fingers of his left hand. Each attempt to insert a round only served to push the clip away as it slipped between the boy's clamped knees.

"We've already dodged some pretty big bullets with that brother of yours. The herbal treatments have the arm lookin' a lot better, he's regained at least some of the feelin' and, contrary to his usual MO, his fever never amounted to all that much. We go pushin' at him when he's reached his limit and he's likely to take off again. He's just like your Daddy, that way. You ever tried shovin' your Daddy into doin' somethin' he didn't wanna, it was like wavin' a red cape in front of a bull. But, we do things Sam's way, give him a little break and make some moves towards huntin' down that journal, we can stay together and keep the stubborn fool from doin' anything boneheaded."

"Doing things his way, Bobby, it's entirely possible he'll _never_ regain use of that hand."

"Don't think there's much worry 'bout that," the older hunter asserted with a satisfied smile as he drew Dean's attention to the kitchenette behind him.

Dean turned to see Sam sitting at the table, completely oblivious of the two older men, his concentration completely on the appointed task. The clip from the Glock was clamped firmly in Sam's left hand. The thumb and index fingers of his right hand were slowly and clumsily attempting to grasp one of the rounds from its box, fumbling their hold on the small cylindrical object several times before finally succeeding. Sam worked to reposition the bullet in his grasp, small winces creasing his face as the awkward and uncoordinated movements caused flares of pain to race up his arm. It took three tries before he was eventually able to produce enough power to successfully load the round into the clip, hissing as the pressure against his tender and swollen fingers produced even more sparks of pain.

"I don't even think he realizes his using that hand," Dean gushed, his voice filled with wonder, both at Bobby's apparent wisdom in getting Sam to use his hand and also at his baby brother's accomplishments. "How'd you know he'd do that, Bobby? How did you know he'd start using that bad hand?"

"Didn't...at least not for sure, anyway. Just knew arguin' with him wasn't gettin' us nowhere. Figured he might need a different kind of motivation. Seems that rejoinin' the quest to save his brother's life is exactly what the doctor ordered. Now, whadda ya say we get packed up before Sam decides he's gonna saddle up and ride off on his own, 'kay?"

* * *

**To be continued...**

* * *

A/N: "You Gotta Move" is a cut from The Rolling Stones' 1971 album, Sticky Fingers. Figured it fit pretty well seeing that Sam's fingers are "sticky" (immobile) and he's desperate to get them moving again.


	9. Scratch That Itch

**Disclaimer: **As much as I'd like them to be, the Winchester boys aren't mine. Completely un-beta'd, as usual, so all mistakes are mine and mine alone.

**A/N: **I know that it has been an _eternity_ since I last posted and I won't bore you with the details, other than to say that it was unavoidable. I hope that you're all still out there and willing to read my humble mutterings, despite the huge delay. This chapter is shorter than usual and, frankly, not all that interesting, but it is a necessary bridge chapter.

**The Road So Far: **After suffering a near-fatal, venomous snakebite, Sam takes off from the hospital in search of a journal allegedly belonging to Samuel Colt. Chasing him across the American West, Dean and Bobby find Sam collapsed on the floor of his motel room, the wound on his right arm raging with infection. Colt's journal not far from his mind, Sam suffers through herbal treatments to cure his infection and return function to his hand and arm. But the moment his fever breaks, Sam insists that the trio hit the road for Wyoming to resume the search for the journal he hopes will contain the secret to saving his brother from Hell. (Set prior to end of S3).

* * *

**Atrox**

**Chapter 8: Scratch That Itch**

Dean fingered open the Impala's door and, juggling an overflowing armload of purchases, settled back into the driver's seat with a slightly graceless plop. Using his teeth, he ripped open a wrapped snack bar with the savagery of a bear tearing into its kill and then reached across the car's bench seat and roughly nudged his apparently preoccupied sibling.

Sam turned with a start at the unexpected abuse and frowned disapprovingly. "Knock it off, Dean."

Ignoring Sam's sour tone, Dean shoved the newly-opened granola and a vitamin-infused bottled water in his baby brother's direction. "Here, I got us each something to eat and drink."

It was only a few hours into their journey and the Impala had been far from really _needing _fuel, but Dean had grabbed the chance to gas up his baby anyway. After all, on twisting mountain roads as remote as those found in this part of southern Idaho, you never could tell just how far you'd have to go before you'd get another chance. The fact that the small service station included an equally small, but still worthwhile, selection of portable snacks and drinks hadn't hurt, either. The way his little brother had been eating lately, or rather, _hadn't _been eating, Dean would take whatever opportunity presented itself to try to boost Sam's pitifully inadequate food intake.

Sam silently and rather distractedly accepted the drink, shoving the chilled plastic drink bottle between his thighs so that he could grasp the granola in his left hand. He immediately turned back to staring out the passenger's side window without sampling either the snack bar nor the drink.

He'd spent most of his life comfortably ensconced in the Impala, the past few riding shotgun, but Sam was already starting to feel the cramped quarters and their journey had hardly just begun. His knees, hips and shoulders were so stiff and achy that he could hardly stand it. He'd adopted a routine of fidgety squirming in an effort to relieve the joints, but he knew it was bound to attract Dean's attention sooner rather than later. And these days, with Dean worrying over every little aspect of his life and health, any time that Dean centered on him, the resulting nagging was most certainly sure to add to Sam's misery.

As if the ache in his joints and Dean's constant hawkish observation of him wasn't bad enough, the itchy sensation that had begun to plague him earlier in the day had not abated in the least. In fact, it seemed to be worsening...and spreading. _God, this is gonna be a long drive._

Dean swilled a few quick gulps from his ice cold Mt. Dew, following it by chewing a huge hunk from his Tabasco Slim Jim Monster meat stick and chewing noisily while a groan of pleasure slipped from his greasy lips. Flashing a quick glance in his rearview mirror to assure that Bobby had finally finished squeegeeing the copiously thick film of Idaho dust from his windshield, the Impala growled to life with just a flick of Dean's wrist. Shifting into gear, Dean pulled back out onto the macadam with a vengeance, Bobby's time-worn truck close on the classic car's tail as the Impala roared through the countryside, quickly chewing up miles of asphalt like a hungry black beast.

"Hey," Dean called out nearly ten minutes later, his eyes darting back and forth from the road to his little brother. "That, uh, ultra-tasteless, incredibly healthy, orgasmic, back-to-nature, tree-hugger bar not the right brand of twigs and berries for you?"

"Huh?...Uh, no. No, it's fine. Granola's good. Thanks, Dean." Sam took what was obviously an obligatory bite of his granola bar, one that was taken purely for Dean's benefit, before scratching distractedly at the irritating itch that prickled across the skin of his abdomen.

_Ok. Something's up. Sammy didn't even bother to get all college-boy pissy about my substitution of 'orgasmic' instead of 'organic'._

"You ok, Sammy?"

"It's Sam," the youngest Winchester corrected, readjusting his position to straighten his increasingly cramped knees as much as the car's limited space would allow. _No. I'm not ok. My joints feel like they've been folded into this position for a week._ "And why is it," Sam questioned crossly, "that you and Bobby are always asking me if I'm ok?"

"Gosh, I don't know," Dean responded with a sarcastic edge to his voice. "Maybe it's got something to do with the fact that you almost died on us...not once, but _twice..._you're only a couple days out of the hospital and, oh yeah, you shouldn't even _be_ out of the hospitalright now, jackass, never mind be on the road again."

"We're not gonna start arguing about this all over again, are we Dean?" _I don't want to argue about this. I don't want to have to admit that you're right, Dean. I feel like crap already. Maybe this __**was**__ a bad idea._ " 'Cause, if we're gonna start arguing again, I think I'd rather ride with Bobby."

"That's fine by me."

"Fine!"

"Fine!," Dean echoed loudly, his facial expression stormy. He flexed his fingers open and shut over the Impala's steering wheel as he contemplated just how much his fingers would like to be doing that very same thing around his younger brother's neck right about now. _Bro, I love you more than life itself. I mean, didn't I sell my soul for you? But, holy crap, a person can take only so much pissing and whining and you are __**so **__pushing the envelope. Ever since you found out about Colt's journal you've been moodier than a chocolate-deprived woman with PMS._

Dean fumed silently, choosing not to bait Sam's surly mood any further, but didn't let up on the gas pedal, either. Every nerve Dean had had been burnt to a crisp chasing Sam the past several days over hundreds and hundreds of miles of the American West and he wasn't about to let the boy out of his sight now, crappy mood or not.

**ooo000ooo**

Several hours passed in heavy silence as each Winchester stared out at the blurry mix of rich earth tones, lush greens and blazing wildflower hues that could only spring from the verdant palette of Nature's flawless artistry. Sam tried rather unsuccessfully to ignore the protests of his body by immersing himself in the rugged beauty of the landscape, but the aching of his joints and the maddening itch of his skin kept wrenching his attention away from the scenery.

_Have I really been out of commission so long to be __**this **__stiff and sore just riding in the car? _Sam tried to suppress a grimace as he kneaded his hand down the knotted muscles on the top of his left thigh, ending by massaging over his aching knee cap with a swirling of his hand.

_Dean. It's got to be Dean...something he did. He probably thought he'd be funny and readjusted the seat up further. That would be just like him to try starting another prank war. _Sam drove his feet up as high onto the firewall under the dashboard as he could, hoping to stretch his long legs out as much as possible and then rolled his sore shoulders a few times before settling back. Although the repositioning had given him an additional few inches of leg room, his knees and shoulders continued to throb with a dull pain.

Sam huffed a breath out irritably before finally leaning forward and searching underneath the seat for the latch to adjust the seat's position. He caught Dean skirting a questioning glance in his direction and he pulled back quickly, trying to appear as nonchalant as possible. Sam settled once more back against the Impala's passenger's seat trying his best to sit still and to avoid the continued scrutinizing glares of his older brother.

He began silently reciting the Greek alphabet to himself as he struggled to block out the discomforts that he was certain were slowly going to drive him insane. _Alpha...Beta...Gamma...__**. **__Delta...Epsilon...Zeta...__**. **__Eta...Theta...Arrgh! Why does my skin feel like it's crawling?! _Sam stole a glance at his watch as he attempted to stealthily and inconspicuously scratch his back against his seat by making a subtle shuffle in his position.

_Where was I? Oh, yeah...Eta...Theta...Iota...__**. **__Lambda...No, no that's not right...aw, geez...this itching is driving me crazy! Um...Eta...Theta...Iota...__**Kappa**__...Lambda...Mu...can't scratch...can't scratch 'cause Dean's looking...arrgh! Dean's watching...can't scr-...Son of a bitch! Itching powder! Dean's gone and put __itching powder in my clothes again! Dammit, Dean! I can do this...I can ignore it...I'm sure as hell not going to give you the satisfaction of knowing you got me again. I can ignore the itching...I can igno-...Ahhh! _

Sam shimmied his tormented joints into yet another anguished arrangement before succumbing once again to the exasperating need to scrape at his irritated skin. As he finished rubbing the underside of his left arm across the coarse seam of his pant leg, Sam stole another peek at his wristwatch. Anannoyed frown marred his features as he noticed that the hands had barely moved despite what had seemed to be a significant passage of time.

"You got a hot date I don't know about, Sammy?"

"What?...No!" Sam flashed an ill-tempered glower at his older sibling before hunching slightly towards the passenger's door. The movement was really intended to relieve the aching in his back and shoulders, but the young hunter hoped that he had covered well enough that Dean would interpret it as another sign of his annoyance.

"Well, you keep checking your watch like you're gonna be late for your prom or something."

_That's because I can't take another minute of this itching and my joints feel like they're going to explode. _"I'm just wanting to make good time, ok?"

"And what? Going eighty through mountain passes on roads with no guardrails isn't fast enough for you?"

"It's just..." _It's just that I ache, Dean...everywhere. No matter what I do, I can't get comfortable. And did I mention that my skin itches so bad I'd love nothing more than to scratch right down to the bones? But I know if I let on even a little, you'll make a huge deal out of it. _

"It's just what, Sam? Come on. Talk to me."

"It's just that every minute that passes, is another minute that the journal could slip through our fingers." _Please buy that excuse, bro. This is no big deal. I'm just stiff from not being out of bed all that much in the past few days, that's all._

"And you're sure there's nothing more going on? No psychic heebie-jeebies or research details I should know about?" _'Cause I know you little brother and I know you can't sit still, but this...you're never __**this**__ bad. This is something else and I'm pretty sure I know what._

"You know as well as I do that I haven't had any visions since Yellow Eyes died. I've told you everything, Dean. I promise." _I promise I told you everything...except how wretched I feel. _

"Uh huh," Dean grunted in a disbelieving tone. "And I also didn't just fall off the turnip truck either, dude."

"Ok, fine, Dean. You want to know what's wrong?! Huh?! Do you?! Your inability to rein in your stupid, infantile attempts at humor by starting another prank war, that's what's wrong!"

Sam's sudden outburst had Dean's eyes flashing back and forth from the road to his still-seething brother, confusion evident in the older Winchester's expression. "What the hell are you talking about? I'm not trying to start another prank war!"

"So you're going to sit there and tell me that you didn't douse my clothes with itching powder again?!" Unconsciously punctuating his point, Sam scratched roughly at the itch that flared along his right shoulder, chest and ribcage.

"Yeah, that's what I'm going to tell you 'cause I didn't do anything! Dude, you watched me pull your clothes straight from your duffel when I helped you dress this morning. When could I have possibly messed with them?"

Sam leaned forward, his hand clawing up under his pant leg in order to dig savagely at the skin of his left lower leg. A half-dozen violent rasps of his skin later, he sat exasperatedly back against his seat and quietly considered what Dean had said. "Well, if you didn't do something, then why am I so itchy?"

"I don't know, man. I'm sure it's no big deal. You know, we had to use the motel soap this morning instead of your usual frou-frou, girlie crap. Maybe the motel stuff irritated your sensitive, baby soft skin." Dean made certain to stress the last several words in a mocking imitation of a young child's speech.

"Irish Spring is not a frou-frou soap...and excuse me for wanting to smell like I actually _take _a shower." Sam leered accusingly in his brother's direction before a quiet groan slipped loose as he shuttled his stiff, achy joints into a new position. "But it's kind of a stretch, don't you think? One wash-up and I'm a headliner in the Itchy and Scratchy Show? It's not like we haven't endured cheap motel soap before, Dean."

"Ha! I _knew _it! All these years you've denied it; said you'd rather do something 'enlightening' like homework or research. But I _knew _you were secretly watching 'The Simpsons'!"

"I was not!"

"Oh? Then how do you explain the 'Itchy & Scratchy' reference, huh? That's straight outta 'The Simpsons' and you know it! You watched it! You know you did! Admit it!"

"Ok, fine," Sam surrendered, as he altered his body position again as much as the cramped interior of the Impala would allow. "You caught me, alright? I heard it straight off 'The Simpsons'. Kinda hard not to, though, when you're stuck in a one-room motel room with an older brother that couldn't seem to get enough of that mindless abomination of animation, which, I might add, seemed to be broadcast on every channel you turned to, twenty-four hours a day!"

"Just proves my point, Sammy. If 'The Simpsons' wasn't quality programming all those channels wouldn't have been clamoring to show it. You just don't have good taste in entertainment, bro."

Sam grunted his skepticism of Dean's statements before carefully scuffing at the prickly skin under the bandages that swathed his right forearm. "The only taste you have, dude, is all in your mouth." Sam gave a sidewards glance in his brother's direction, deep dimples forming as he smirked at the mock look of hurt on Dean's face and the way he placed a hand over his chest as though he'd been suddenly wounded.

Seconds later, Sam had twisted his left arm behind himself, fruitlessly trying to dig at the irritation crawling along his back. Having no success in reaching the agitated area, Sam uncoiled his arm from behind himself and started quickly shimmying his back repeatedly across the backrest of his seat in an effort to gain relief. "Ugghh, God! I can't _stand _this itching."

"Well, I promise, Sam...I didn't mess with your stuff. You know, that newest cinnamon concoction that Bobby's been using on your arm has aloe as its base. Maybe that's your culprit. Dad was allergic to the stuff."

"He was?" Sam arched his back against the growing ache knotting along his spine. "I didn't know that. When did you find that out?"

Sam swore he saw a flash of guilt color Dean's expression before quickly being pushed behind his brother's carefully crafted emotional walls. "Few years ago."

The short, non-committal answer had made it obvious that Dean really didn't want to talk about it...and, as usual, that only made Sam want to talk about it that much more. "Ooookay. Like when? I mean, there's got to be a story behind it."

"Yeah, there is," Dean agreed irritably. "Dad got hurt. Dad used aloe. Dad got itchy. End of story."

"End of story? Come on, Dean. This is something about our Dad that I didn't know. I have a right to know the details."

A heavy silence filled the car and Sam idly dug at another itchy spot on his chest while Dean stared out at the road ahead with a hardened glower. In the occasional gleam of lights from a passing car, Sam could see his brother's Adam's apple bobbing slightly and he knew Dean was working his way back through old memories that had cut deeply and then been buried even deeper. Just when Sam was certain Dean wouldn't relate his story, the monotonous hum of the road was broken by the rich timbre of the older Winchester's voice.

"Dad and I were in Arizona on what was supposed to be nothing more than a quick spook flambé before we tackled the main hunt. Can't even remember now what it was that we were really after."

Dean swallowed thickly and when he spoke again his voice had been muted into the soft sound of sadness. "But I do remember it was the first hunt Dad dragged me on after...I knew I wasn't ready, Sammy. It had only been three days since you'd walked out after Dad had that awful blow-up about Stanford. Our family, the little bit of normal...the only constant that I could claim in our whacked-out lives, had fallen apart at the seams. I couldn't figure out...I didn't know how to fix it. That's all I wanted. I just wanted to fix it. But I didn't know how..."

"There wasn't any way you _could_ have fixed it," Sam admitted quietly. "Dad pretty much made sure of that when he said I needed to stay gone."

"I know. I think I even knew it back then, but I was a mess, dude. All I could think about was where I'd gone wrong that night, what I should have done to prevent all of it and finding a way to make everything right again. My head was nowhere near the game and I knew I wasn't ready. But Dad...," Dean smiled sadly and shook his head. "You know him. He wasn't about to hear it." Dean deepened his voice, affecting an approximation of his father's tone and attitude. " '_A hunter is always ready, son. You take your losses on the chin, shake 'em off and return to battle even stronger_.' Trouble was, I _couldn't _shake it off...and I sure as shit didn't feel any stronger."

"Dean..."

"No, Sam. You wanted to know, so lemme finish." Dean worried his lower lip with his teeth a few times before returning to his tale. "I'd spent two hours opening the grave before I finally heard the crack of splintering wood. Dad had stood sentry the whole time and, as bad a son of a bitch as he was, not even a leaf had dared to move. When it came down to the actual salt and burn, he ordered me out and took over. When I'd been shoveling, I kind of fell into its rhythm, you know? Was able to distract myself. But standing watch...I screwed up, Sammy. All I could think about was that night and wondering if you were ok. I wasn't paying attention and the spook got the drop on me just as Dad struck the match. I couldn't even react before the spirit lobbed everything we had, including our half-full can of gas, at Dad. I can still hear his scream as a huge, orange fireball exploded around him. By the time I was able to finish off Casper, Dad had dropped and rolled and was swearing like a sailor denied shore leave."

"So he was ok?" Sam winced as he rubbed once again at his sore knees and then was compelled to chase an itch squirming it's way across his abdomen.

"Mostly scorched the crap out of his clothes. But he'd had his sleeves rolled up and his arms; they took the brunt of protecting his face. Blistered immediately. I wanted to take him to a hospital but Dad insisted we needed to take care of it ourselves. Or, rather, that _I _needed to take care of it."

"Typical," Sam growled in disgust. "He pushed you into a hunt you weren't prepared for and then, when things went south, he made you feel responsible. And what better way to compound the guilt than to force you into cleaning up his mess."

"It wasn't like that, Sam. He was trying to help me."

"Help you?," Sam questioned incredulously. "How does throwing one more undeserved burden on you, help you?"

"He was just trying to teach me a lesson. Give me a chance to redeem myself."

"And?"

"Didn't go so hot. I had to peel away all of the scorched, blistered skin. Thought I was gonna hurl right then and there. No matter how hard I tried to hide it, I could tell that Dad knew it. Didn't help, either, that I'd forgotten to restock the first aid kit with burn cream after I used it dressing the hand you scalded melting down silver for rounds."

"Dean, I burned myself the night before I left for Stanford. You didn't exactly have plenty of time to go get more."

"I'd had three days, Sammy. Three days from the time you left until Dad got hurt. It was just another boneheaded move in his eyes. Thought I'd make up for it all by being shrewd, using what I had at hand; maybe wipe away some of the disappointment I could see on Dad's face. I found some aloe growing wild, mashed it up real good and applied it to the burns. Worked for a while, too...until Dad broke out in a wicked case of hives and we ended up at a clinic, anyway. Took the last of our cash to pay for his treatment. I thought Dad would blow a gasket, he was so ticked. He never said any more about it, but I used to catch him, in the middle of a job, doing a visual sweep of the area whenever I was on sentry duty. He lost faith in me that day, Sam, and I never gained it back. When he took off, before I came and got you at Stanford, I just figured he'd finally gotten tired of always having to look over his shoulder; you know, that he thought he was safer by himself than having me watching his six."

Sam looked over at his older brother. Dean's face was a mask of indifference, but his eyes shone with the emotion of his confession. Dean had tried his whole life to meet his father's impossible expectations and saw his inability to do so, not as his father's outlandish expectations, but as his own personal failures. Sam hadn't understood it then, and he didn't really understand it now. What he did understand was that Dean had craved praise from their father and never receiving it had left a wound inside his soul that would never completely heal.

"Guess that explains why you always insist on being the one to handle the burn portion of our gigs."

"I let Dad down and it got him hurt. I'm not about to take the chance of failing you, too."

"You know that's a bunch of shit, right?" Sam's question was blunt, but there was no heat behind it. "If there was anyone to blame for Dad getting hurt, it was Dad. I mean, you told him, man. You told him you weren't ready and, like always, he didn't listen. Dad dumped a ton of crap on you your whole life. You didn't deserve it and no matter what you think, there was no way you were ever a failure. Dad and I have _always _been safer because you were around. And you know what? I'm not ashamed to tell you, I'm glad I've got you watching my six, bro."

"Thanks, Sammy. I appreciate that. But I would expect a girl like you to want someone watching out for 'em."

"Cute." Sam made another attempt at rearranging his aching legs before twisting in his seat again, his left hand snaking behind his back to massage at a knot of muscle in his lower back. "So...if you didn't put itching powder in my clothes, than I guess that probably means you didn't move the seat up either, huh?"

Dean laughed heartily. "No, I didn't. But I'll have to remember that one. Might come in handy sometime." Dean looked over at his baby brother as he struggled to find a comfortable position. "Can't do much about the itch, but there's some Tylenol dose-packets in the glove box if you want it."

Sam leaned forward and pulled the small compartment's door open, fishing through a mound of gas receipts, paper napkins and well-worn maps to find the medication. He tore one of the foil packets open with his teeth, popped the two round, white pills into his mouth and chased them down with a large gulp of the vitamin-water he'd been nursing since they'd left the gas station.

"Thanks. Guess I'm not used to being out of bed for so long at a time. My back's clamped down tighter than Bobby's wallet."

"Don't let him hear you say that."

**ooo000ooo**

**One hour later**

**Outside of Ola, Idaho**

"Aw, shit," Bobby grumbled as his truck breached the end of a blind curve. "_Now _what?"

The small caravan of hunters had gotten caught behind a semi as it crawled lazily up one of the steep mountain inclines. At the first sign of safe passage around the sluggishly moving vehicle, Dean had yanked the Impala into the opposite lane, stomped the gas and streaked quickly out of sight.

The passing area had been short, damned near microscopic if you'd asked Bobby Singer, and he was left to impatiently drum his fingers on the steering wheel as he awaited another chance to overtake the tortoise-like progression of the eighteen-wheeler in front of him as it strained against the grade. Bobby had been obsessing over just how far ahead of him the Winchester boys might have gotten when the Impala had suddenly come into view.

The sleek, black car that had become as much a part of Dean's mystique as his weathered leather jacket was pulled off onto the edge of the road about one hundred yards ahead. Both of the car's doors stood open ominously, as though they'd been carelessly abandoned in the occupant's haste.

As Bobby's truck closed the distance and pulled in behind the parked car, his view of Sam was obliterated by Dean's hunched form huddling over the passenger's side of the car, one arm slung along the top of the seat, the other hooked over the top edge of the open door. From his vantage point, all Bobby could see was Dean's back and the way in which his body was positioned with an almost imperceptible tension running through it.

Flicking off the truck's ignition, the older hunter pushed the driver's door open and stepped out, quickly rounding the front of the vehicle and making a bee-line for the Impala. The rocks and grit that comprised the shoulder of the roadway crunched noisily under Bobby's boots as he made his way towards the duo. His approach, particularly from behind, should have triggered the flashpoint of Dean's well-honed protective mode like a spark takes to tinder, his hackles up and his fists prepared to fly. The fact that it hadn't stirred Dean's attention in the least was something that tied a knot of concern in the older hunter's gut.

"Is, uh...S'ev'rythin' awright, boys?"

"Yes."

"No!"

Somehow Bobby had been expecting exactly what he got – instantaneous and differing assessments of the situation from each Winchester.

"Glad you boys cleared that up for me," the eldest hunter grumbled sarcastically. "Now how 'bout you boys tell me what's really...?"

Dean stepped aside and gestured frustratedly at his younger brother as Bobby moved in to get a better view.

"Sweet Mother Mary on a motorboat. Visions again?"

Sam sat slumped in the car with his head drooped back against the seat's top. The fingers of his left hand massaged at his forehead then scrubbed heavily across his eyes before starting the pattern all over again. Against the black backdrop of the Impala's interior Sam's skin appeared nearly translucent.

"No," Sam declined quietly as he continued to press the heel of his hand into his eyes. "It's just a headache. I already told Dean that, but..."

Sam's voice faded away as he blinked his eyes open and struggled to focus on the concerned faces in front of him. A vaguely familiar series of scintillating lights flickered across his eyesight. As similar as the phenomenon seemed to be to the odd strobe-like visual disturbances he had always experienced immediately prior to a vision, it was somehow different, too.

Unlike his visions, his surroundings weren't obliterated by the visual change but, instead, were superimposed by tiny orbs of brilliant white that twinkled like stars in a cloudless winter night's sky. And the vision headaches, they weren't quite like this one, either. Yeah, they'd been pretty bad, but the pain had been a simple throb, consistently gnawing away for hours before mercifully fading away to whatever part of Hell it had originated from.

This headache, though, wasn't content with being a run-of-the-mill vision kind of thumping. No, this migraine had a disconcerting new feature. In addition to the usual splitting headache, it seemed every time Sam moved his eyes, pain spiked behind them, piercing straight up into his brain and rattling around his cranium.

"I don't care if it's only a hangnail, bro. It's one more thing on top of everything else."

The perplexed look on Bobby's face clearly showed that he felt as lost in this conversation as some student who hadn't studied for a big exam. "Everything else?"

Sam made the reflexive mistake of turning his eyes to look in Bobby's direction when the older man spoke. A streak of blistering agony shot through Sam's eyes and raced into his head, accelerating through synapse after synapse, burning its way into his brain until it felt as though the contents of his skull was turning to molten lava. Sam flinched involuntarily and then doubled over in his seat, his hand shooting to his head as though the pain was a candle that could easily be snuffed out just by smothering it with enough pressure.

A sudden lightheadedness washed over Sam and the car's interior seemed to shift suddenly, taking the youngest Winchester's stomach right along with it. The nausea crescendoed relentlessly as his long legs tangled clumsily while trying to swing out of his seat. His hand left hand searched wildly for a handhold that wasn't there and he could feel himself pitching uncontrollably towards the ground.

Dean hadn't thought it possible, but he'd seen Sam go twice as pale as he had been just seconds before. He quickly stepped closer, trying to keep his little brother from taking a nose dive for the pavement but fell short as Sam's arm lashed out for a handhold. Caught off balance, Dean was sent reeling backwards several steps as Sam jettisoned from the passenger's seat, stumbling and skittering, half on his feet and half on hands and knees, to the weeds at the roads edge.

Within seconds, the seething churn of Sam's stomach came to a climax in strong, peristaltic waves of vomiting that convulsed through his body as though some evil serpent were thrashing to get out. Pain lanced through Sam's head with each of the forceful contractions, his back arching until the muscles supporting his hunched frame shook furiously with the uncontrollable strain.

Warm hands encircled him, buttressing his swaying form and the soft, unmistakable timbre of Dean's voice flowed in his ear with soothing words. As the last spasm shuddered through him, Sam sat back, instinctively leaning in Dean's direction and the comfort he was sure to find there.

The exertion of heaving had breathed new life into Sam's body aches and spawned a thin trickle of sweat that ran slowly down his back. He squirmed slightly in Dean's hold as the droplet's progress stirred a renewed irritation along his spine.

"Itch?"

Sam silently shook his head affirmatively to his older brother's simple question before relaxing into Dean's chest with a satisfied groan as the elder sibling gently scraped at the aggravated area.

Bobby had stood idly by, hands shoved deeply in his pockets as he helplessly watched the events unfolding. "Seems like Benji, here," Dean explained matter-of-factly to the older hunter, "must need a good flea-dip. Been scratching like mad for hours now."

Sam pushed from Dean's embrace, a scowl etched across his features. " 'M not Benji and I don't have fleas."

"Oh, yeah, you're right. A girl like you would be Lassie."

"Hate to tell you this, Dean," Bobby broke in, "but all of the dogs that have portrayed Lassie were males."

"Oh. Doesn't matter. Still doesn't change the fact that Sammy's got fleas."

Sam sighed tiredly and twisted his whole upper body in Bobby's direction, careful to avoid moving his eyes and causing a flare of pain to return. "Do you think we can skip the aloe and cinnamon today, Bobby? I think it might be what's causing the itch."

"Sure, kid. The arm's lookin' pretty good, so if ya think that's what's causin' your troubles, sure, we can skip it."

"Thanks, Bobby. I think everything – the headache, the upset stomach – I think it's all just because this itch is driving me crazy."

Sam pushed himself to his feet, a small groan slipping out as his aching joints protested his weight, and stiffly shuffled back in the direction of the Impala. Settling slowly and awkwardly back into the shotgun position of the car, he carefully turned his head to look up and found Dean and Bobby watching his movements.

"You guys coming? We've got a lot of miles to cover yet."

"No way, Sam," Dean blurted disapprovingly as he approached the vehicle. "You can whine and be a pissy little brother all you want, but I'm pulling off at the next lodging and you're taking it easy. You've been up too long already and you're moving like some eighty year old man."

"Dean's right, son. I've seen roadkill that looked better'n you." Sam opened his mouth to protest but Bobby quickly cut him off. "And just 'cause I'm lettin' you skip the aloe and cinnamon treatment doesn't mean we can skip carin' for that wound altogether, not to mention your hand mobility and strength. It's comin' along, but we've still got work to do."

After years of going head to head with John Winchester, Sam knew he had participated in some world-class verbal sparring sessions. In all that time, he'd honed his skills and sharpened his tongue while locking horns with one of the most arrogant, overbearing and opinionated men he'd ever known. The experience had taught him to stand his ground with a formidable strength. But he'd learned, too, that there were just those times when continuing the fight ended up taking more out of you than it gained.

Taking in Dean's stern posture and the way Bobby's large hand had settled on his shoulder in a fatherly way, Sam knew this was one of those times. No matter how much his heart wanted to continue on to Wyoming, his body obviously had other plans. He wasn't about to admit it to Bobby, and most especially not to Dean, but he really _did _feel like hell. A warm shower, some quiet research time and a soft bed sounded pretty good about then even if the reality of it would more likely end up to be a lukewarm shower, a pitifully unreliable Internet connection and a saggy bed in some dilapidated motel.

Sam sighed wearily. "Ok. You win...but only because you guys don't play fair - ganging up, two against one, on the puking, injured, migraine guy. It's shameless."

"Shameless, huh," Dean asked, a wry grin spreading across his face. "I can live with being shameless. What about you, Bobby?"

"Totally."

* * *

**To be continued...**

* * *

A/N: The chapter title, "Scratch That Itch", is a track from the 1990 Ratt album, 'Detonator'. Although the previous album met with much criticism, the move away from the raw sound of their earlier albums to a warmer and more polished sound proved disastrous, resulting in less than one million 'Detonator' albums being sold, a first for the band. Unable to resuscitate their waning popularity, Ratt members pulled the plug on the band two years later and went their separate ways. They released two more albums, in 1997 and 1999, and have one in the works to be released in 2009 but, so far, have been unable to recapture their glory days at the top of the charts.


	10. Wearing the Inside Out

**Disclaimer: **Usual disclaimers apply. Completely un-beta'd so all mistakes, errors and other WTF's are mine and mine alone.

**A/N: **I didn't do so well, I guess, at getting this next chapter out in the "few more days" I'd promised in my review replies. (If I missed anyone, I'm sorry) But as a consolation, I've given you an extra-large, ultra-ginormous, over-stuffed and super-sized chapter. I kept tweaking, editing and adding and the next thing I knew, the chapter was FIFTEEN pages long! Think of it as my Christmas/Hanukkah/Kwanzaa/Whatever-you-happen-to-celebrate gift. Happy Holidays! God bless us all, everyone!!

* * *

**Atrox**

**Chapter 9: Wearing the Inside Out**

**Settle Inn  
****Lost River, Idaho**

"Why don't you take a break, son?" Bobby stood directly behind Sam, his large hands kneading at the cords of tightened muscles along Sam's shoulders as the young man diligently typed yet another query into the search engine of the laptop, the fingers of his right hand painful and uncooperative as they danced awkwardly across the keyboard and his eyes squinted against the bright glare from the screen. "It's pretty obvious, even to a half-senile, old man like me that you're still nursin' that headache."

Sam sighed and closed his eyes, rubbing each one with the heel of his left hand in an effort to relieve the pain that seemed to have settled behind them. Research was normally something that came very easily to the youngest Winchester and he had always taken some degree of enjoyment from finding clues to whatever supernatural mystery he was working on. But the way the words were all seeming to flow together in a mish-mash of blurry images and twinkling lights had significantly complicated matters. Sam's frustration was only compounded by the utter fruitlessness of his current investigation. No matter how many sites he perused, he just wasn't finding any further information on the whereabouts of Benton Scruggs than he already had.

"Dean'll be back with supper soon..."

"Yeah, I know. And he'll be ticked if he sees that I'm doing research."

"You _did _promise him you'd take it easy."

"I _am _taking it easy," Sam asserted contentiously, but bookmarked the site he'd been investigating and started the computer on its shutdown process anyway. "It's not like I'm up, running around town, chasing down leads. And, anyway, I needed to work on my hand mobility, right? Well, as I see it, typing is just as good a therapy as weapons cleaning is."

"I'll give you the point that switchin' up the weapons cleaning therapy with the typing wasn't a half-bad idea...different motions, workin' on coordination skills..._but,_" Bobby continued quickly, not allowing Sam the opening to argue about resuming his research, "Somehow I think you're brother had other ideas of what 'takin' it easy' means."

Bobby smoothed at the top of the bed's comforter before snagging some extra pillows from a nearby chair, jamming them up against the headboard and punching at them several times until he was satisfied they were in just the right position to support Sam's back.

Dean had employed his undeniable charisma to charm the items, free of additional charge, from the two clearly smitten housekeepers. They'd fallen under his spell almost immediately as he wove his tale about looking after his sick, injured little brother. But what had finally clinched the extra amenities was Sam's coincidental, but no less propitious, arrival at the room's door looking like a reanimated corpse and moving twice as slowly. What the long miles, aching muscles, vicious headache, maddening itch and upset stomach hadn't taken out of him, Sam's determination to make the short walk from the car on his own had finished off. He'd practically fallen into the room as he'd pushed past his brother as he worked his mojo on the shocked and suddenly sympathetic, chambermaids.

"Come on and get that scrawny ass of yours over here," Bobby cajoled as he patted at the pile of soft pillows again. "And don't go givin' me any guff, boy. That brother of yours will be kickin' _both _of our asses if I don't keep looking after that wound."

Sam pushed painfully from his seat at the computer and walked stiffly to the bed before stretching his arthritic joints along it's surprisingly soft surface. Contrary to their usual accommodations, this motel, while not lavish, was at least tastefully decorated and was proving to have comfortable beds. Sam sighed appreciatively as he settled his aching back against the mound of pillows, squirming a few times to scratch at yet another itch rippling up his spine and to burrow deeper into the soft support.

As Bobby gently began removing the bulky dressing encasing Sam's right hand and forearm, the younger hunter leaned his head back, closed his eyes and attempted to will away his headache. The pain had backed down a bit since they'd gotten off the road, but it had by no means gone away. It hadn't taken Sam long to realize that eye movements caused unpleasant spikes of pain and he'd quickly learned to avoid it as much as possible.

But lying there, centering on pushing the headache into submission, was only seeming to increase his discomfort so Sam consciously loosened all of his muscles and allowed his body to relax into the contours of the bed. He wasn't accustomed to having even a minimally cozy room and the comforts of the bed soon had his mind conjuring up fantasies of what delights the bathroom might hold. Maybe he could have a hot shower with generous water pressure or, even better, a long soaking of his tortured muscles in the tub; tendrils of steam curling and ebbing their way around his throbbing head until the pain disappeared into the delicate mist.

The serenity of his thoughts was shattered when a biting pain suddenly flared along Sam's forearm at the portion of the wound where Bobby was cleansing away the previous treatment's poultice. Sam sat up abruptly and cradled the still smarting limb to his chest.

"Aw, damn, Bobby, that hurt!"

"What did?"

"Whatever you were doing! It hurt like crap! Unngghh!" Sam had tried to quell the groan, but it had slipped through his clenched teeth anyway as he curled his upper body protectively over his arm. "God, that sucks!"

"Sorry 'bout that. Didn't mean to hurt you."

"I know, Bobby. It's just...**.**" Sam rocked back and forth a few times before gingerly returning his arm to the bed and resting back against the pillows, breathing through the now-waning pain. "Man, that blows!"

"I'll go as easy as I can, kiddo," Bobby assured as he readied a handful of dampened Q-tips. "But I've got to clear away a little more of the old poultice so that I can see what's goin' on."

As Bobby worked, listening to Sam's muted groans and bitten off hisses of pain, it became obvious that one location seemed significantly more tender than the rest of the healing wound. Carefully concentrating his efforts on the most sensitive area, Bobby used the soft, cotton-tipped swabs to lightly scrape the remnants of the poultice away, revealing the tissues below.

Bobby blew out a sigh of relief as he surveyed the wound. "Well, that's lookin' better than I thought it might."

"Then why's it hurting so much?" Sam sat forward and eyed the wound contemptuously, searching for the source of his discomfort.

"Could just be that you're gettin' more sensation back and feelin' it more when I'm messin' with it, but it _is _a little red around these stitches here." Bobby used one of the Q-tips to indicate several of the large, surgical sutures that he was referring to. "Nothin' bad, but we should still keep watch of 'em."

"Yeah, ok. But you're not going to use the cinnamon and aloe, right?" The pleading look on Sam's face and large, soulful eyes made Bobby chuckle inwardly. Without even trying, the boy had a way of appearing as though he was so innocent that butter wouldn't dream of melting in his mouth. "I'm still itching from the _last _time we used it."

"No worries, kid." Bobby reached up with a calloused hand and lightly patted the youngest Winchester along his right cheek. "We'll still skip the aloe and cinnamon. You're makin' _me _itchy just watchin' you scratch."

**ooo000ooo**

Sam slipped lower under the water, a sigh of relief accompanying the relaxing warmth that enveloped his body and crept up the back of his neck. Despite having to fold himself into the small tub, an act that left his knees poking out of the water like two albino islands jutting sharply from a tranquil sea, the heat seemed to bring some sweet relief to his aching joints. He had to be certain to keep his right arm resting on the side of the tub to prevent Bobby's new dressing from getting wet, but the bath was proving to be nearly as wonderful as he'd imagined. He supposed it would have been perfect, had it not been for one small detail...his stomach.

Not long after Bobby had finished bandaging Sam's arm, the rich, tangy fragrances of soy and ginger had wafted through the small motel room as Dean returned, his arms laden with large bags of Chinese food. As they sat down to eat, conversation had swirled around Sam's research and the leads he'd found that had all but placed a flashing neon arrow on the outskirts of Crowheart, Wyoming, a small town bordered by the Wind River Indian Reservation, marking the town as being the spot that Benton Scruggs' had proclaimed as his hideaway of choice.

Unfortunately, conversation wasn't the only thing swirling and Sam had valiantly tried to consume enough of his stir-fried vegetables to keep Dean off his back. In the end, he'd resorted to creatively shoving the vegetables into strategically heaped piles designed to hide just how much of the food he was leaving behind before finally giving up and excusing himself, citing the inviting call of a hot bath as reason for abandoning the dinner table so quickly.

Sam had shuffled his way into the bathroom and begun drawing the bathwater when his stomach had finally reached full rebellion, launching a major offensive and propelling its contents into the nearby commode. The fury of the running water had covered the sounds of Sam's laborious retching, thankfully avoiding what would have been another inevitable confrontation with Dean, if not Bobby, as well, over the state of Sam's health and the wisdom of continuing on the quest for Colt's journal.

The stress of yet another round of vomiting hadn't done much for his tortured muscles, either, and he'd climbed into the tub aching even worse than he had all day. As he lay there soaking up the sultry comfort of the water and appreciating the unfurling of tightly twisted muscles, he mourned the loss of the utopian bath his mind had conjured just a short while earlier. Somehow, lingering nausea had never figured into his fantasy. He supposed it was far from Nirvana or Valhalla or Zion or any of the other versions of Heaven Sam grew up reading about, but he was willing to take whatever slice of pleasure that Life was willing to grant him and Sam closed his eyes, allowing the snug serenity of his tub-cocoon to embrace him with a feeling of quiet contentment.

**ooo000ooo**

Sam mopped at the droplets of water that dripped from his skin before wrapping the ample-sized towel around his hips and securely tucking the end in. His joints and muscles still ached but the nasty throbbing had been tamed by the warmth of his bath and he was looking forward to a good night's sleep in a comfortable bed, even if it _did _mean sharing with Dean.

Many times over the years, money constraints had necessitated that the brothers share a bed but they hadn't done so since Sam had hit puberty and his limbs had transformed into gangly lengths of knobby angles. But the Settle Inn was the only lodging for miles around and when the desk clerk had offered the tiny motel's last room, one with only two full-size beds instead of Dean's favored Queen-size, the Winchester brothers had buddied-up without a second thought and given their old friend, Bobby Singer, the other bed.

As Sam exited the steamy bathroom, he could see Dean had already staked a claim to his "half" of the bed. In other words, Dean was sprawled across two-thirds of the now-rumpled surface of the boys' bed, balancing a longneck of his favorite beer on his thigh while watching TV and not appearing in any hurry to alter his position in the least. A large, satisfied belch emanated from deep within Dean's stomach and rolled like thunder up his throat until it exploded into the room like a sonic boom, followed shortly by Dean's sheepish grin when Bobby shot him a look.

Sam snickered to himself in quiet amazement as he made a beeline for his duffel and the clean T-shirt and sweatpants he'd find inside. Despite all of the years he'd spent trailing in the wake of his older brother, Dean's sometimes rude and often potentially annoying antics usually ended up just giving him a humorously endearing quality.

"Oh, hey, Sam," Bobby called out after seeing Sam using his left hand to dig through a pile of haphazardly arranged carryalls until he'd found the one constructed out of brown canvas. "Your pack is the brown one now." Bobby reminded, pointing at a spot to Sam's left. "I put your kit over there so it would be easier for you to get at."

Sam looked perplexed as he followed the older hunter's gesture. Despite not recalling having two identical satchels, another brown canvas duffel bag lay just ten feet from him.

"Your Daddy's bag was the only one big enough for all of the herbs and medical supplies so we put your stuff in the smaller brown duffel. Don't think you'll want that maroon one you've got there in your hand," Bobby assured.

_Maroon? _Sam stared at the rucksack in his hand. _What the hell?_

A wicked grin spread across the older man's face. "Unless, of course, you're plannin' on washin' my dirty skivvies _for_ me."

Dean burst out laughing and the look of mixed repulsion and confusion on Sam's face made him crack up even harder, his beer in real danger of sloshing onto the bed from the violent tremors of Dean's violently quaking body.

"Huh? Uh...no. I...uh...I think I'll pass." Sam's eyes flashed around the room. There was something different about the room. Something he couldn't quite put his finger on. He peered down at the duffel again. It looked brownish, just like the duffel to his left, and yet Bobby had said it was maroon. Something about it all just put him on edge and yet Dean and Bobby seemed perfectly at ease; no different from normal. They seemed completely unaware of anything being wrong.

Sam looked around the room again and it finally hit him. It wasn't the room that was different, it was the colors. They were "off"; fuzzy and muted, as though the steamy mist from the tub had literally attached itself to him, encasing him in his own personal cloud. _It's like I'm like Pigpen from the Peanuts comic strip...only cleaner. _

Sam dropped the canvas bag that was in his hand like it was red hot, an act that had Dean curled into paroxysms of laughter yet again. It was just too much to ask to contain himself when his brother looked so grossed out by the thought of touching Bobby's undergarments.

"Seems as though Sam thinks you're a bit too much of a 'moldy-oldie' for his tastes, Bobby," Dean snorted out between fits of giggling. "By the look on his face, handling your BVD's is gonna scar him for life!"

Bobby made a mock laugh in Dean's direction before gesturing in the direction of the television. "Ok, you two. You chuckleheads gonna pipe down so we can watch the movie, or what?"

Dean continued to take quiet amusement from the situation and Sam shuffled the few feet to what Bobby had indicted was the brown pack...the _real _brown pack. As he shifted through the contents in the bag, pulling out items and slipping them on, his mind tumbled at warp speed. He looked back at Bobby's maroon duffel as he carefully threaded his bandaged right arm into the sleeve of his tee and pulled it over his head. _It's a maroon pack but it looks brown to me. Is it the headache? But my headaches have never affected my eyes, the colors, like this before. What the hell's going on?_

Sam could feel himself getting freaked but the last thing he wanted to do was mention anything to Dean or Bobby. He'd finally gotten them off his back and he wasn't about to go doing or saying anything that might result in them starting up all over again. He knew they only did it because they worried about him, even if the Winchester way was to never admit it openly, but there had to be a rational explanation for everything that was going on. He was smart. He wouldn't have gotten into Stanford if he wasn't. He knew he could figure this out if he just took some time, sat down and calmly thought things through.

The youngest Winchester padded quietly across the room to the bed. "Scoot over, Dean. Half that bed is mine, too, you know."

Dean snickered again, his eyes sparkling with barely concealed mirth at seeing his brother's apparent embarrassment over the duffel mix-up, but wiggled lazily over to the right side of the bed, rumpling the bed linens even further in doing so. Sam smoothed the bed's bottom sheet on his side before pulling the top sheet as tight as he could over top. Next, he straightened the comforter the best that he could before neatly folding it, and the sheet, back and settling himself gingerly onto the bed. His muscles and joints weren't quite as tight as they had been, but he was still pretty sore and it took him a few minutes before he found a position that was as comfortable as possible, then finally dragged the covers up to his waist.

When he looked up, Dean was staring at him. "You done now, Big Bird? Making your nest, I mean."

"Sorry."

Sam allowed himself to sink deeper into the bed and tried to get interested in the movie. It was the 1969 film 'Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid'. Dean and Bobby had probably seen the thing a thousand times; so many times, in fact, that Bobby would take the part of Butch Cassidy and Dean would take the part of the Sundance Kid, each reciting, right along with Paul Newman and Robert Redford, the lines they'd long ago memorized. For Sam, it had grown annoying after the first three hundred times they'd done it. But now on performance...what? Six million, four-hundred eighty-seven thousand, two-hundred twenty-_one, _this was one performance that Sam wished would close...for good.

Sam watched the flickering images on the screen but found the distorted colors he was seeing to be quite bothersome. Then, too, there was that strange blurriness to everything – almost as though he was trying to peer through a greasy window. He scuffed a hand over his eyes, hoping to wipe away the visual disturbances, but it didn't change anything and thinking about it so much was stirring up his somewhat quieted headache.

"Think ya used enough dynamite there, Butch?," Dean and Robert Redford crowed simultaneously after a railroad car on the TV was blown to smithereens in a huge explosion.

"Uh...Dean," Sam called out hesitantly.

"What now?"

"Do you think you could turn the lamp off? There's a glare on the screen."

Dean leaned over, turning the switch to the bedside lamp without ever missing his cues for the next lines and Sam sighed quietly. Having the light off seemed to help a bit. It didn't _cure _things, but it did seem like he could see a little better in the dim light of the room.

"Thanks."

Sam pushed even lower in the bed and tried to enjoy the film despite Dean and Bobby's simultaneous performances. Hoping to improve his vision, he tried raising or lowering his head to adjust his view, but it was to no avail. The more he tried to compensate for the vision change, the more his head started pounding. Finally, he just decided to give up, figuring the long day had truly been too much and being overtired was playing strange tricks with him.

Sam closed his eyes and tried to relax; tried to wipe his head of all of the wild thoughts and weird theories that bounced around inside. Minutes later the sudden eruption of gunfire on the television caused a shower of sparks to burst behind Sam's closed lids like a Fourth of July fireworks display. He lay as still as he could, wondering if he'd really experienced what he thought he had or whether he'd been close to sleep and being startled back to wakefulness had caused the strange effect.

As Sam lay there, waiting, with his eyes closed, Dean and Bobby happily continued to spout lines back and forth from the movie. He shuffled into a slightly different position in an effort to ease his joints but he could already feel the unnatural tightness he'd had all day returning to the muscles in his back and legs.

Long minutes passed without any further disturbances and Sam had just started chastising himself for getting spastic over nothing when it happened again. This time, though, the gunfight was particularly loud...and long...and the fusillade of glowing flares streaking behind his closed eyes rivaled the largest and most spectacular Independence Day pyrotechnic finales Sam had ever witnessed. Sam squinched his eyes shut tightly and rubbed at them with the knuckles of his left hand.

Dean saw the movement in his peripheral vision and turned to look at his little brother. Sam's face was pulled into a grimace and he was pinching at the bridge of his nose, much like he had when he was getting headaches from his visions.

"That soak didn't do much for the headache, bro?"

"No...not really," Sam whispered. He wasn't lying, he just wasn't telling Dean everything. He _did _still have the headache and it was starting to jack up in intensity again. There really wasn't any need to worry Dean or Bobby with the other stuff until he could figure out just what was going on. "I...uh...I think...uh...I think I'm just going to turn in now, if that's ok with you guys."

"Yeah, sure, Sammy," Dean replied, his hand giving Sam's right shoulder a light, but sympathetic squeeze. He hated to see his baby brother in pain and he secretly was glad that Sam was hitting the sack early. The day's traveling had obviously been too much for the boy hours ago, even if Sam wouldn't admit it, and the extra sleep would do him good. "I'll turn the TV down some for you so you can get some rest."

"You sure you're ok, son?" Bobby's voice drifted over from the other bed, the hint of worry still crystal clear despite the distance.

More loud noises pulsed from the television set and another round of surging lights bit through the darkness in front of Sam's eyes. It unnerved him but he was sure he could deal with it. Maybe the bath had been too hot or it was caused by the headache or maybe he was fighting off some weird flu. Either way, Sam was certain he'd feel better in the morning. If he didn't, well, then he could talk with Bobby about it and get his take on what was going on.

"Yeah, I'm ok. I guess hitting the road again has me a lot more tired than I expected I would be."

Sam turned onto his left side so that he faced away from his brother's prying eyes and tried to settle himself into a comfortable position. He waited for his brother's gloating jibes about being right, that it was too soon for Sam to be on the road or even more questions about his health, but he heard none. Instead, he heard the volume of the movie lessen noticeably and Dean and Bobby's chatter fall silent.

**ooo000ooo**

The nagging headache, achy joints and odd, disconcerting flashes of light Sam had seen even when his eyes were closed had made getting to sleep difficult but as the movie ended and Dean clicked off the TV, the soft sounds of Sam's even breathing filled the air. Dean slipped carefully from the bed so as not to wake his brother and began checking the salt lines at the doors and windows while Bobby double checked the protection symbols.

Returning to his shared bed, the older Winchester slid lightly back under the covers and nestled himself into the plump pillow. He looked over at his slumbering brother, whose somewhat restless shifting had flopped him onto his back. Even in sleep the boy looked more than exhausted. Dean shook his head at his brother's appearance before whispering quietly into the darkened room.

"Didn't I tell you this road trip was too much for you right now, bitch?"

**ooo000ooo**

**The following day, late afternoon  
****Crowheart, Wyoming**

The drive to Crowheart had been breathtaking. The sky was a gorgeous cerulean hue; the bluffs shades of rust, chocolate and beige and the various species of trees and grasses were budding in a peacock-like display of emeralds, jades and limes. The day had dawned perfectly, splashes of light causing brilliant reflections of the scenic colors on mirror-smooth lakes and crystal clear streams and the sun had kissed the day with a gentle warmth as it had risen bright and cheerful. Sam Winchester, however, had not.

He'd awoken feeling exhausted and his body ached with an even greater fervor than it had the day before. His vision was still off and, oddly, it had seemed to grow worse after taking yet another hot shower in an effort to loosen his muscles and joints.

He could tell that the weather was fair and mild from the comments that Dean had made while driving. But, to Sam, everything had taken on a blurry and almost shaded quality, as though someone had placed the world around him on a dimmer switch and turned it part way down.

Although the inexplicable changes in his vision and the eye pain continued to spook him, Sam had decided not to mention anything about what was going on. If he couldn't explain it to himself, how could he possibly expect to be able to break it down so that Dean, or even Bobby, was going to understand it. All it would end up doing was making him look crazy. After all, you don't go from perfect vision one day, to needing glasses the next. He was certain it was all just a minor inconvenience brought on because he was still recovering his strength and he was pushing a little harder than he ought to.

He wasn't about to let it drive him crazy, but as the trio of hunters strode up the flower-lined walkway toward the front door of the Back in Thyme Bed & Breakfast, Sam couldn't help but wonder just how stunning the old Victorian home would be if his eyesight was back to normal.

The manor was an imposing structure, the centerpiece undoubtedly being the turret that rose three stories into the crystalline Wyoming sky. Although the residence was painted an unassuming white, the detailed gingerbread-style millwork and use of deep rose, bronze and sage accents gave the homestead an extravagant look. Large wrap-around porches with ornate ironwork railings hugged the building on either side of the central tower, giving the place a warm and friendly feel. A porch swing swung invitingly in the warm Spring breeze, situated in such a way that anyone lounging there would have a panoramic vista of the equally lavish and colorfully landscaped grounds.

"Would you get a load of _this _place," Dean groused, accompanied by a distressed eye-roll. "We're staying in a frickin' dollhouse! I swear to God, if Malibu Barbie answers the damned door, I'm outta here. Then again, with _her _dimensions maybe I ought to just..."

"Can't you talk about anything, Dean," Sam complained bitterly, "without turning it into something sexual? What about how much effort the owners put into restoring the place? Or how about the dedication and craftsmanship that went into all of the hand-carved woodworking?"

The three men climbed the few steps to the front door and Bobby reached out to heavily tap the wrought iron knocker on the solid wood doors.

"I mean, just look at that door," Sam went on. "You certainly don't see gorgeous oak doors with intricate scrollwork like that anymore."

"Didn't know you were such a fan of 'This Old House', Sammy," Dean shot back. "Next time I produce some fake ID's I'll be sure to put 'Bob Vila' on yours."

The muffled sounds of footsteps just beyond the heavy wooden doors quieted the bickering brothers as the trio tried their best to appear as relaxed and non-threatening as they could. Seconds later, both doors swung wide and a diminutive, fifty-something woman greeted them.

"Well, now, I'll bet you're the Winchesters. We've been expecting you. Please, come on in."

The somewhat tubby woman extended her hands and grasped each of the Winchester boys, Dean by the right hand and Sam by the left, before pulling them awkwardly into the vestibule of the mansion, with Bobby tripping in behind them. Under the massive crystal chandelier, dashes of salt-toned hair sparkled in the woman's predominantly pepper-colored coif as she extended her arms and gestured at the surroundings.

"My name is Debra Wilcox and I'd like to welcome you to Back in Thyme Bed and Breakfast. I sure hope you'll enjoy your stay with us."

Dean was looking at the home's décor as though it was going to make him physically ill. Antique furnishings, crafted with dark woods, filled the nearby rooms while tapestry drapes adorned with gilded tassels hung at the windows. Delicate hand-crocheted doilies were carefully placed on appropriate pieces and square swatches of maroon-colored moire fabric, canted at an angle for greater decorative effect, were draped over the arms of the vintage couch and chairs.

Sam peered around the restored home, marveling at the three-story spiral staircase in front of him. The architecture was spectacular and the homeowner's attention to period detail was something that he knew that Jess would have loved. "I'm certain we will. The place is beautiful. Must have a lot of history behind it...and the surrounding scenery, wow!"

"Oh, yes! It was a good thing you boys called ahead to book your rooms," the woman crooned. "We only have a handful of them available and this time of year we fill up fast because of our proximity to the Jackson Hole area. It would have been a shame if I'd had to turn such sweet-looking lads like you away...and looking so tired, too."

Dean shuddered slightly at Debra's exuberant and syrupy-sweet attitude, then actually cringed before forcing a smile when she reached out and gave his cheek an affectionate pinch. As she turned away to consult the guestbook she used to keep track of room assignments, Dean leaned close to his brother and whispered close to his ear.

"No one's that chirpy, at least not naturally. I'm telling you, someone trying that hard to seem sweet and cheerful is hiding something. I'd bet anything June Cleaver, here, has the Beav sliced and diced in some back room, somewhere."

"Dean...," Sam growled under his breath. Sam was beat and he was finding he had even less patience for Dean's antics than usual.

Done double-checking the traveler's room numbers, the innkeeper ushered the men towards the dramatic spiral staircase. "Now let's get you settled in, shall we?" As she led the trio up the curving stairway, a climb that Sam was beginning to think was beyond the capability of his aching limbs, she continued speaking, gesturing in Bobby's direction. "You'll be in the first room on the left at the top of the staircase. It has it's own, private bathroom. Boys, you'll be in adjoining rooms at the end of the hallway. I'm sorry, but I didn't have any more rooms with private baths, so you two'll have to share the one between your rooms. I hope that will be ok."

"The boys are accustomed to buddyin' up," Bobby assured their host, "so that'll be just fine, Mrs. Wilcox."

"Oh, dear me," Mrs. Wilcox exclaimed animatedly, "there's certainly no need for such formality here. Please, call me Debra."

"Ok, Debra," Bobby agreed. "And I'm Bobby. These are my nephews Dean and Sam."

They mounted the final step and Debra stopped at the first door. "Well, here we are...and the two of you are just a few doors down that way. You can come and go as you like and breakfast and lunch are quite informal, but we do ask our guests to dress for dinner. That's when my husband, Dennis, our in-house chef, pulls out all the stops and prepares a simply _scrumptious _gourmet meal. And you and I, Sam, can talk a bit more about the history of the house. You know, Samuel Colt, the famous gunmaker, was said to have stayed in this house."

"You don't say," Bobby stated, trying to put an 'I'm impressed' tone into his voice, all the while shooting Sam and Dean a sidewards glance that clearly said, 'Are you boys payin' attention to this?'.

"Oh, but that's a subject for dinner conversation, now isn't it Sam?," Debra cooed almost flirtingly. "Well, I'll get out of your way so that you three can get unpacked and changed. Dennis never fails to have dinner on the table by five-thirty, sharp. Afterward, I can give you a tour of the place and then you can spend your evening in the gaming room." She started ticking off items on her pudgy fingers. "We've got cards, chess, checkers, a billiards table, a big screen TV, an air hockey table and table soccer. Now, what is it that Dennis called it?" Debra put her index finger against her lip while she thought. "Oh, yes...foosball, that's what it was. He called it a foosball table. Those are the only things we've brought into the house that don't blend with the period décor. Well, that and the appliances in the kitchen. Got to have some modern conveniences, I suppose," she said with a giggle. "Well, toodle-oo, dears. Let me know if you need anything, otherwise I'll see you three handsome men at dinner."

With that, Mrs. Wilcox turned and retreated back down the stairs as the hunters looked on in stunned silence. Bobby couldn't understand how the woman could have talked for so long without taking even a single breath, Dean was aghast that Debra had seemingly grown irritatingly chirpier by the minute and Sam's mind battled over which thoughts to give precedence – the idea that there might be more clues about Samuel Colt right under their noses, or the thought of having to endure a rich gourmet meal on a stomach that hadn't held down even the blandest of foods in days.

**ooo000ooo**

Bobby disappeared into his room and the Winchester brothers quickly slipped into their own rooms. Dean tossed his pack down next to his bed, frowning at the frilly curtains and floral bedspread, before wandering into the shared bathroom where he found a large claw-footed tub along the one wall. The tub was nearly twice as deep as modern bathtubs and the head end was constructed so that it extended above the level of the foot, the gently sloping back making a perfect position for lounging.

Dean poked his head out the bathroom door that led into Sam's room. "Hey, Sammy! Come in here. You've got to see this old tub. It's gigantic!"

"I'm busy, Dean. I'll check it out later." To his older brother's surprise, Sam showed absolutely no enthusiasm for his discovery, even seemingly irritated by Dean's intrusion, and continued to unpack his meager belongings and place them neatly in the drawers of the bureau.

Dean stepped into Sam's room, one that was decorated with an equally feminine flare. He watched silently as his brother continued unpacking without looking up or even further acknowledging Dean's presence. Sam pushed a folded shirt into the top drawer with an angry shove and then thrust the drawer shut so hard that it slammed; the heavy, antique bureau jiggling just enough that the glass knick-knacks placed along its top clinked together with a delicate 'tinkle'.

"You're not still sore about the separate rooms are you? I mean, we still share a bathroom and you're welcome on my side anytime, Sammy. Really. All you have to do is walk right through here." Dean's eyes were wide and innocent as though speaking to a young child as he gestured back and forth with his arm from the bathroom doorframe in Sam's room, through the bathroom and toward his own room. "You don't even have to knock. Just come right in."

Sam tossed the folded jeans he was holding back down onto the bed with a huff. "In case you didn't know, I'm a big enough boy to sleep on my own, Dean. I just don't get why you would spend the extra cash for separate rooms when we could share a bed again. What are we going to do if we have to stay here longer than expected?! Scam a sweet old lady and her husband with a fake credit card?! 'Cause _that's _not corrupt and despicable."

Dean was flabbergasted by Sam's sudden verbal attack.

"Yeah, well, after last night, Hell is gonna freeze over before I share a bed with you again. You squirmed the whole god damned night. If I got a total of three hours sleep, I'd be surprised!"

"I couldn't help it, Dean! The itching was driving me crazy. Still is!" As if to illustrate his point, Sam reached around his back and scrubbed at his irritated skin. "And, anyway, sleeping in the same bed as some overgrown troglodyte like you isn't any picnic! I don't know how many times you smacked me in the arm the way you sprawl your 'gorilla limbs' across the whole, frickin' bed!" Sam shifted his wounded right arm a little bit in the sling. "No wonder it's hurt like a bitch all day!"

Sam instantly wished he could have retracted his words when he saw the look of devastation and self-recrimination on his older brother's face. He really wasn't even sure why he'd said what he did. He knew how Dean would react to that revelation, and yet, he'd blurted it out anyway. Dean _had_ bumped his arm a few times during the night, causing flares of pain to ignite along the length of the arm, but he certainly hadn't done it intentionally and didn't deserve to be castigated for it.

"God, Dean, I'm sorry. I don't know what's wrong with me." Sam flopped down on the edge of his bed and roughly scrubbed a hand over his face and through his shaggy hair. Damn, if he wasn't feeling like crap; even more so than the day before. His head was pounding again, he ached all over, his skin itched so bad he wanted to crawl right out of it and now he felt like a first class jerk for hurting his brother's feelings over something as ridiculous as sleeping arrangements. "It's not like you _meant _to do it. Neither one of us is used to sharing a bed anymore. I shouldn't have said that. I'm sorry."

Dean padded quietly across the room and settled on the bed next to his baby brother. He bumped shoulders with Sam before reaching up and giving the back of Sam's neck a firm squeeze.

"Nah. I'm the one who should be saying 'I'm sorry'. I should have cut you a break. I know the itching's been driving you crazy so I should have guessed it was what had you so restless last night. You haven't used any more of the aloe, have you?"

"No." Sam sat, hunched forward with his elbow on his knee, and continued to massage at his throbbing head. "Bobby's been real good about making sure we don't use it."

"That's good." Dean turned slightly and, using both hands, began kneading at the muscles along the tops of Sam's shoulders, his thumbs occasionally working their way across his shoulder blades or down his spine. A low groan of appreciation rumbled from Sam's direction, followed by a long sigh.

"I just wish I knew why this itch isn't going away." A hint of desperation had edged into Sam's voice.

"It took Dad three or four days to feel better after his run-in with aloe...and he had whatever pills it was that doctor put him on to help him out. I'm sure it'll start getting better soon."

"Yeah, I guess."

Dean finished giving the back rub and lightly tousled Sam's hair before breaking the contact between the two siblings.

"Thanks, Dean."

"Hey, no problem." Dean leaned forward and matched his brother's position by leaning his elbows on his knees and then looked over at him. Sam turned his head and met Dean's eyes. Dean reached out and bumped Sam's knee lightly with his closed fist. "So...uh...you want me to go see if Debra can give us one room with a Queen?"

Sam laughed lightly and a lopsided smile crept over his face. "Nah. Doubt she's got anything else. Place is full. Anyway, there's no sense in _both _of us losing sleep because of this stupid itch."

Sam reached his hand up underneath his shirt and dragged his fingernails harshly over the prickling skin of his abdomen.

Dean nodded his head in a 'you've-got-a-point' manner and then chewed on his lower lip as the room fell into an awkward silence.

Suddenly, the bed began to shimmy slightly beneath them as Dean hung his head and laughed quietly to himself. It seemed his little brother would never cease to surprise him.

"What?" Sam was looking at him, his eyes wide and sparkling with an eager curiosity. In that moment, the world-weary man had seemed to transform before Dean's eyes into the inquisitive tot that had sat, mesmerized, at Dean's feet as he'd taught Sam to tie his own shoes.

"Overgrown troglodyte?"

Sam smiled sheepishly. "Yeah...um...sorry 'bout that."

"No, no." Dean smiled mischievously. "I've been known to have a few empty pizza boxes, chip bags and beer bottles strewn around my motel rooms, so the 'prehistoric cave dweller' designation fits pretty well."

Sam grinned widely. "Yeah, I suppose it does."

Dean flexed his arm muscles and sat up straight, puffing out his chest. "I'm like Ah-nold," Dean said, trying to affect Schwarzenegger's Austrian accent, "in 'Conan the Barbarian' or that dude in 'The Beastmaster'."

Sam choked out a contemptuous huff. "More like Fred Flintstone, if you ask me."

Dean's muscle-man pose deflated instantaneously and he peered incredulously at Sam, who was in real danger of slipping from the bed he was laughing so hard.

"Come on, Wilma," Dean growled bitterly as he rose from his spot on the bed. "We'd better get dressed and get downstairs or Bobby's gonna eat his share of Dennis' gourmet Brontosaurus Burgers and ours, too."

**ooo000ooo**

"God, I _so _can't get out of this monkey suit fast enough," Dean called out as he tugged viciously at the tie that was knotted around his neck.

Although being in a suit and tie had been decidedly uncomfortable for Dean, possibly even bordering on painful, he had to admit that the swanky menu, with its juicy cuts of tender lamb seasoned with thyme, creamy four-cheese potatoes au gratin and steamed fresh green beans drizzled with a lemon-butter sauce and sprinkled with a topping of chopped, toasted walnuts, had been very satisfying. It was one of the few times Sam could actually remember Dean eating real vegetables...and the first time he'd ever seen Dean going back for seconds.

Debra had explained that the green beans had come form the bed and breakfast's own gardens and the thyme from the greenhouse that housed their extensive collection of fresh herbs. She went on to say that thyme featured heavily in the cuisine of the country inn, even influencing it's name – Back in Thyme, a reference to the herb as well as the Victorian roots of the home.

Dean had enjoyed the meal, but it was the assortment of fresh fruit pies for dessert, though, that had finally convinced Dean that he could deal with the saccharin sweetness and over-the-top femininity of their accommodations, if only to sample more of Dennis Wilcox's delectable confections.

The doors on either side of the connecting bathroom hung open so that the boys could still talk while changing clothes in their separate rooms. And, as Dean stripped out of his hated suit, he continued to chatter excitedly to his younger brother.

"Man, did you see that foosball table they've got? Sweet! After I'm done flailing Bobby's ass, you'd better be prepared for the butt-whoopin' of your life, 'cause I'm challenging you to a game of foosball, too."

"Sounds fun, Dean." Sam took off his jacket and tossed it across the back of a nearby chair before clumsily unbuttoning his dress shirt and doing the same. He plopped down on the bed and sat there for a minute breathing a little heavy and rubbing his chest. _God, even my chest hurts tonight._

Dean's voiced drifted over from the other room. "And don't think I'm going to take it easy on you just because you can play the wounded card. Oh, no way. You play with both hands...the movement will do that right one some good. But to even the playing field, I'll play one-handed...and _still_ kick your ass with one hand tied behind my back."

Sam kicked off his shoes and watched as they landed haphazardly near the chair, one flipped upside-down next to the chair's leg, the other upright, but partially sticking out from beneath the seat. He tugged, one-by-one, at his dress socks until they popped free of his feet. The first dark sock rolled into a crumpled ball that landed in amongst his shoes, the other one pulling off inside-out and sling-shotting well beyond them, to rest in a heap at the base of the wall.

Just that small amount of exertion had tired the young Winchester out and he sat there resting as Dean prattled on in the next room.

"And when I'm done doing that, I'm gonna wipe the floor with you in a game of air hockey."

A chill run up Sam's spine and he shuddered lightly. Pushing up from the bed, he crossed the room to the air conditioning unit, only to find that it hadn't been turned on. He checked the window to make certain Mrs. Wilcox hadn't opened it slightly to let some fresh air in, but found that it was securely closed and locked. He stepped back over to the bed, unbuckling his pants and pushing them down before seating himself back on the side of the bed.

"Hey, maybe when you've had enough humiliation," Dean hollered out tauntingly, "Bobby'll play a game of chess with you."

Sam pushed his pants completely off and flung them, devil-may-care, into the seat of the chair. Man, he was tired. Everything ached and, to top it all off, his stomach was once again contemplating the merits of recycling yet another meal. Sam sighed heavily. He really wasn't feeling up to dealing with Dean's competitiveness and almost certainly being the butt of his jokes.

"That ought to be buckets of fun," Dean continued. "Two brainiacs hovering over a chessboard trying not to geek each other to death."

Dean pulled his T-shirt over his head and tucked it into his jeans before slipping into a button-down and rolling the sleeves to his elbows. He retrieved a rolled up pair of socks from his duffel and prepared to slither into them, first taking a healthy sniff at them to make certain if they were clean or not.

"You almost ready over there, bro? Clock's tickin' on your ass kickin'." Dean didn't hear a reply from the other room but giggled merrily at his poetic joke as he tugged on his boots and tied the laces. He grabbed his comb from the dresser and quickly dragged it through his spiky hair. After all, he had to look good for the ladies, even if the only ones he'd met at dinner were old enough to be his mother.

He threw the comb down on the top of his bureau and headed for Sam's room, his voice booming loudly as it resounded through the empty restroom connecting the two rooms.

"Shake a leg, Sammy! You don't want that sissy, Cameron, from Room 4" he asserted as he strode through the bathroom, his boots echoing heavily on the ceramic tile floor, "staking a claim to the foosball table before us..."

Dean rounded the doorframe of the powder room and stepped into his little brother's room. The sight before him pulled him up short. "...do...you?"

Sam lay on his side, curled into a loose fetal position and dressed in nothing but his boxers and T-shirt, just above the covers Debra had pulled down for them earlier. A messy shock of his chestnut hair spilled untidily across his face and the sounds of soft, even breathing filled the room.

Dean crept quietly over to the bed and gathered up the covers, drawing them lightly up and over his slumbering sibling before tucking them gently around his shoulders. "Guess you do need the sleep more than the foosball and air hockey, huh?," Dean whispered.

He crossed the room and turned off the overhead light with a soft 'click', then turned and slipped out the main door to Sam's room. With a final look back at his baby brother, Dean closed the door quietly behind him and headed down the hall towards the stairway. With a little luck, the place had some booze as good as its cuisine had been and he could spend the evening in front of the big screen TV doing his best to pickle his liver.

**ooo000ooo**

"Guess maybe it was a good thing Sammy _didn't _come down. He'd never let me live this down." Dean groused, a pout twisting his handsome features. "A sluggish old man like you beating me five games to two, I'm losing my touch."

Bobby beamed widely over the expensive beer provided by their hosts. "You keep it up, Junior, and I'll make it _six_ to two. Better yet, why don't you put your money where your mouth is and see what this _sluggish old man _can do on the air hockey table."

"Bring it on, Singer. Bring it on."

The two men left the foosball behind and moved to the air hockey table. Each man unconsciously adopted a fighting stance over their respective goals, faces serious and intimidating, looking for all intents and purposes as though the outcome of the game were a life and death matter.

"I'll take pity on you," Bobby teased as he lightly tossed the puck in Dean's direction. "I'll spot ya two points and even let you have first possession of the puck. Take your best shot, boy, 'cause you're goin' down."

The game began with Dean's lightning-quick slapshot but it was easily returned by Bobby. As the men settled into a long volley, the conversation drifted back to Sam.

"So, you say he fell asleep while you were changin' clothes, huh?"

"He didn't sleep well last night," Dean revealed as he made his next shot, banking it off the side but failing to penetrate Bobby's goal. "The itch kept him up...and his arm," he added quickly.

Bobby's brow creased with concern. That was the second time the boy had admitted he was having more pain than he had been having. From the looks of things, the infection was all but cured. The last thing he needed right now was to have it getting bad again.

"His arm was bothering him?"

"Wouldn't have...if I hadn't accidentally cracked him on the sore side a couple times in my sleep. Why?"

"Oh, nuthin' really. Just watchin' after my patient, is all." Bobby made a hard lunge and the puck swept past Dean's defenses, depositing itself into the goal with a clattering of plastic.

Dean dug the plastic disc from within his goal and the game resumed, Dean more determined than ever to score.

"I'm just glad to see that he's finally held down some food – the Chinese last night, then breakfast and lunch today...and, hopefully, tonight's dinner," Dean went on. "Gave him a quick back rub earlier and was half afraid I'd break the kid in half."

"The arm looks good and he's holdin' down some honest-to-God nutritious food. We get that itch taken care of, he'll start feelin' better, and be back to the old Sam before you know it."

**ooo000ooo**

What Dean and Bobby were unaware of was that Sam was upstairs at that very moment, draped over the toilet, hurling his supper into the previously sparkling clean bowl...just as he had done with supper the previous night, as well as today's breakfast and lunch.

He'd been fortunate enough to be able to conveniently conceal the fact that he was still plagued by nausea and vomiting. Breakfast had come up in the filthy, bug-infested restroom of a tiny service station where Dean had gassed up the car. While lunch, it hadn't even waited for them to leave the roadside diner. He'd risen from the table and quickly excused himself to the men's room as soon as he felt the first rush of sourness fill his mouth. He'd had just enough time to rush through the bathroom door and slam into a stall before his lunch reappeared.

He'd hoped things would be different tonight, but it wasn't to be. The vomiting had begun so abruptly that Sam hadn't even taken the time to turn the lights on, navigating his way to the restroom by the pitifully weak illumination of a single nightlight.

Sam sat back from the foul contents of the toilet and trembled. As he rested there, he made a mental note to ask Mrs. Wilcox, in the morning, if she could set the thermostat in his room up a bit. It was just ridiculous, not to mention uncomfortable, having a room this cold. Frankly, he was feeling awful and the chill in the room wasn't making him feel any better.

He reached up and depressed the handle to flush away his dinner, then pushed shakily to his feet. He looked around the large bathroom and noted a small set of shelves tucked into the corner near the bathtub. On them, was stacked piles of extra towels, washcloths, a spare roll of toilet paper and, much to Sam's relief, two large, luxuriously thick blankets – one color-matched to the décor in Dean's room and one compatible with the colors in Sam's room.

It was obvious that one blanket was meant for each of the adjoining rooms, but Sam really didn't care at this point. He just couldn't stop shivering and the comforting warmth they offered was irresistible. Dean would understand. And, anyway, Dean was always so hot-bloodied that he rarely needed a blanket, nevermind an extra one.

Sam trudged arthritically back to his bed, the two blankets clutched tightly under his left arm. His whole body ached and his head pounded as he laboriously spread the additional blankets out over the top of his other bed linens. When he was done, he slipped painfully beneath the mountain of covers and burrowed deeply into their soothing depths. Within minutes, Sam had fallen deeply asleep.

**ooo000ooo**

"Ha! You are _so _going down, Bobby," Dean whooped gleefully as the puck shot like a missile past Bobby's attempt to stop it and landed soundly in the goal. "I'm up five points to three!"

"Your Daddy ever teach you about humility?," Bobby queried. "Oh, hell, what am I talkin' about? You're frickin' John Winchester's son."

"Oh, come on, Bobby," Dean crowed mockingly. "Why don't you just admit it. I'm the Back in Thyme air hockey champion and you know it."

"Last I recall, the game ain't over 'til someone earns _seven _points, so why don't you pipe down and get on with the game, Wayne Gretzky."

Dean dumped the puck out onto the table and, narrowing his eyes at his prey, smacked it with his mallet so that it would bank sharply from one of the side walls of the playing surface. Bobby followed the disc's movement, lined up his shot perfectly and catapulted the puck across the table in a blur of motion.

Dean intercepted the puck and sent it flying back across the table. Seconds later, Bobby had the puck heading straight for Dean's goal. The younger man changed tactics, hoping to throw off Bobby's game by just barely tapping the object so that it barely slid over the center line. The slower puck speed and odd target location, however, didn't faze the grizzled junkman and he leaned into his shot with all he had, streaking the flattened cylinder right past Dean's waiting defense and into the goal.

Within minutes, Bobby slammed home the three additional goals he needed to win the game. Dean stood at the other end of the table looking crushed. Bobby walked over and put a large, consoling hand on his shoulder.

"How 'bout we call a truce and crack open a couple more cold beers?"

"Thanks, Bobby, but I think I'm just gonna hit the sack. Maybe, in the morning, this demeaning experience will seem like nothing but a bad dream."

Bobby laughed heartily at Dean's joke. "Alright, you go on to bed. I'll be up in a bit. I think I'm gonna spend a little quiet time with some of that Johnnie Walker Blue they've got behind the bar. D'you know what that stuff goes for these days? Anyway, guess I'll see you and that stringbean brother of yours in the morning, then."

" 'Night, Bobby."

Dean left the rec room and walked down the short hallway before turning and heading quietly up the steps. The house was quiet, Debra, Dennis and most of the other guests having gradually retired to their respective quarters over the past hour. He silently slipped into his room but didn't turn on the light, fearing that the bright glow would shine through the open bathroom doors and disturb Sam.

Waking Sam when he needed the sleep so badly was something Dean didn't want to do, but he decided to risk a tip-toed trip through the shared bathroom to peek in on his younger brother. To ensure a stealthy approach across the potentially noisy ceramic tile, Dean removed his boots and padded through the small connecting room in his stocking feet.

He poked his head around the doorjamb and waited for his eyes to adjust to the dimly lit room. Dean chuckled quietly when he spied the large lump hidden underneath the covers. He hadn't seen Sam cocoon himself like that since he was six or seven years old and the sight of it brought a grin to his face.

Dean stood and watched for a minute, grateful that his brother didn't stir and was finally getting a restful night's sleep. He listened for another few seconds to Sam's deep and unwaveringly consistent breathing.

"G'night, Sammy. Glad you're feelin' better, baby brother," Dean whispered into the night, before turning and treading quietly back to his own bed.

* * *

**To be continued...**

* * *

A/N: The chapter title comes from a song of the same name on Pink Floyd's 1994 album, 'The Division Bell'. I figured, what better title could you find for a chapter where someone is puking his guts out constantly? LOL!


	11. Gimme Shelter

**Disclaimer: **No ownership or infringement intended. No profits are being made. Complete responsibility for all mistakes is mine and mine alone.

**A/N: **Forgive me fandom, for I have sinned...not only was I slow in posting (again), but I have delivered a much shorter than normal chapter and I didn't exactly come through on the limpness that I had promised for this chapter. I tried, I really did, but I just couldn't seem to find an obvious chapter break in the middle of the limpness that didn't seem forced, awkward and/or disappointing. Right hand up to God, swear on a stack of Bibles, I promise that the next chapter will be completely devoted to dishing out the Limp!Sam.

* * *

**Atrox**

_Yeah, a storm is threatening,_

_My very life today;_

_If I don't get some shelter,_

_Lord, I'm gonna fade away._

_War, children, it's just a shot away,_

_It's just a shot away;_

_War, children, it's just a shot away,_

_It's just a shot away._

----

Excerpt "Gimme Shelter" - Rolling Stones

* * *

**From the previous chapter:**

_Dean left the rec room and walked down the short hallway before turning and heading quietly up the steps. The house was quiet, Debra, Dennis and most of the other guests having gradually retired to their respective quarters over the past hour. He silently slipped into his room but didn't turn on the light, fearing that the bright glow would shine through the open bathroom doors and disturb Sam._

_Waking Sam when he needed the sleep so badly was something Dean didn't want to do, but he decided to risk a tip-toed trip through the shared bathroom to peek in on his younger brother. To ensure a stealthy approach across the potentially noisy ceramic tile, Dean removed his boots and padded through the small connecting room in his stocking feet._

_He poked his head around the doorjamb and waited for his eyes to adjust to the dimly lit room. Dean chuckled quietly when he spied the large lump hidden underneath the covers. He hadn't seen Sam cocoon himself like that since he was six or seven years old and the sight of it brought a grin to his face._

_Dean stood and watched for a minute, grateful that his brother didn't stir and was finally getting a restful night's sleep. He listened for another few seconds to Sam's deep and unwaveringly consistent breathing._

"_G'night, Sammy. Glad you're feelin' better, baby brother," Dean whispered into the night, before turning and treading quietly back to his own bed_.

********

**Chapter 10: Gimme Shelter**

**Back in Thyme Bed & Breakfast  
****Crowheart, Wyoming  
****  
The following morning  
**

Dean could feel the gentle warming of the sun's first rays on his face as they slipped stealthily through the delicate holes of the eyelet curtains at his window and splashed across his bed. It was unusual for him to awaken at the first hint of morning. That was more Sam's thing. In fact, depending on what types of dreams plagued Sam's sleep, he often rose before what most people would even define as 'morning'.

But his bed had proven to be as close to heaven on earth as Dean imagined you could get and he'd slept more soundly than he had in a long, long time. Maybe that was why his slumber had ended so early. Whatever the reason, he was wide awake and there was no denying it. There wouldn't be much point in trying to turn over and convince himself otherwise.

Dean pushed the soft linens aside and rose to his feet, stretching away the last remnants of sleep, and ambled the few steps to the window. Pushing open the curtain with the back of his hand, he stared out at the sun-washed landscape below. The rough, craggy terrain of the mountains that poked up in the not-so-distant background framed the scene with a rugged beauty of their own.

The young hunter stood, peering out the window and listening for sounds of stirring from his little brother's room, but heard only the sound of happily twittering birds filtering in from outside. If the fact that Sam fell asleep early the night before had been an indication that Sam had been pushing himself too hard, the fact that he was still sleeping in this morning was incontrovertible proof, at least as far as Dean was concerned, that his little brother was far more exhausted by the renewed traveling than he had been admitting to. Knowing the rest would do him good, Dean decided to allow Sam to continue sleeping while he went downstairs and grabbed a cup of coffee.

The older Winchester dressed quickly and slipped quietly out the door, the pungent aroma of premium coffee luring him down the steps and in the direction of the rear of the house. As he clumped lazily into the sun-drenched kitchen, Debra looked up from the morning paper she was scanning while Dennis busily fussed over trays of fancy croissants and danishes and plates of fruits sliced and shaped into the likenesses of flowers and exotic birds.

"Oh, Dean, dear, please come and sit," Debra burbled out as she animatedly indicated the tall stool directly across from where she sat at the thick wooden butcher's block kitchen island. "I trust you and your brother slept well last night?"

"Yes, very well, thank you."

Dennis wiped his hands off on a nearby kitchen towel and poured a mug of coffee for himself and one for Dean. He settled onto the stool next to his wife and pushed the cup of steaming brew in Dean's direction. In that moment it struck Dean just how much Dennis' love of cooking seemed at odds with his outward persona. The cuisinier's stocky build, thick shock of wavy graying hair and bushy walrus-style mustache gave him the appearance of someone that would be more at home herding cattle across the lonely ranges than plying the tools and skills of domesticity in a gourmet kitchen. Had Dennis been blessed with a slightly taller and more wiry frame, he could have easily passed for one of the many rough and tumble cowboy characters often portrayed by Sam Elliot.

"So what do you boys have planned for today?," Dennis' kind voice rumbled out from behind his coffee mug as he eyed the doorway behind Dean expectantly. Although Debra and Dennis had only seen the boys together for a short time after they arrived and for the hour or two over dinner, it was obvious to the couple by the way Sam and Dean had interacted with each other, that the brothers had a close bond. Dennis was certain that when Dean showed up, Sam wouldn't be far behind.

Dean swallowed some of the java, savoring its rich taste and contemplating just how much of their true purpose for being in Crowheart that he was willing to reveal. He wasn't even certain that Colt's journal existed but, if it did, he supposed you could call it an Old West artifact. He stole another quick gulp of the sumptuously full-bodied brew before answering Dennis' question.

"We're out here looking for some Old West artifacts to add to our collection. Thought we might check out some of the local dealers." Dean took another swig from his cup, the invigorating taste of the gourmet dark roast a decidedly welcome change from the usual acrid swill they found at the convenience stores. "Speaking of the Old West," he went on, "we never did get a chance last night at dinner to hear about Samuel Colt's stay in this house."

"Oh! You're right, we didn't! Well," Debra started, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper as though she were giving away some national secret. "In Colt's day, Crowheart didn't really exist beyond a few homes that made up a frontier outpost. This house was one of them. It was near on to sunset when Colt rode into the outpost. He was covered in trail dust, his horse so lathered and exhausted it couldn't go on."

Debra paused for dramatic effect, taking a sip of her coffee before leaning just a bit further over the table towards Dean. She clearly enjoyed telling the tale to their guests. "Legend has it that Colt was carrying something very valuable with him on his journey and he'd galloped into town as though the very demons of Hell were on his tail."

Dean knew that Debra's statement was just an expression, her way of conveying that Colt was supposedly in quite a hurry, but he couldn't help but think how true her words might really have been. "Any idea what it was that he was carrying?"

"Not really," Dennis continued on. "It's said that he had a small trunk or strongbox or something with him that he wouldn't let out of his sight. What was in it is anyone's guess at this point. Whatever it was, though, Colt supposedly was very adamant that there would be grave consequences if the box fell into the wrong hands."

"Right," Debra agreed, once again taking over the tale. "And, as I'm sure you know, nighttime was not a safe time for travel in those days. Even if Colt had wanted to risk it, his horse was just too exhausted to continue so he begged the owner of this home for sanctuary."

"Did he...did the homeowner take him in?" So far, the Wilcox's story was hauntingly close to the story the trio of hunters were currently chasing down about Colt's journal and Dean was hungry to hear more.

Dennis set his partially empty coffee cup down and stepped into the role of storyteller once again. "We're really not sure. The whole story could be true. But it could also have just as easily been fabricated so that someone could get their fifteen minutes of fame, too."

Dean looked at his watch and realized that nearly forty-five minutes had passed since he'd wandered downstairs, leaving his baby brother to sleep in, but he wanted to get as much information from Dennis and Debra as he could while they were in a talkative mood. Benton Scruggs' story in Guns & Ammo might just have been a re-telling and exaggeration of a local legend but it was possible that Dennis and Debra might know some tidbit of information that might prove invaluable in their search for the truth.

"So you've never been able to prove or disprove the claim that Colt was here?"

"When we bought the place, the locals told us the story we just told you," Debra explained. "As Dennis began renovations, I contacted historical societies throughout the state trying to find any information that would confirm or dismiss the local legends. I poured through historical documents, newspapers of the era and personal memoirs of the period without finding anything of value."

Dean checked his watch again. Where the hell was Sam? Bobby's absence he could understand. The older hunter had turned in later than Dean and _significantly _later than Sam. No wonder he was grabbing the chance to lay in for a while. But Sam, he'd been sleeping for more than twelve hours now.

"That's when Dennis made his discovery," Debra stated, looking proudly at her husband, "and the fanciful local tale suddenly became an enigma wrapped in a mystery that was wrapped in a conundrum and bound together by the notoriety of a legendary Old West gunmaker."

"About the time we gave up any hope of ever finding anything interesting," Mr. Wilcox carried on, "I was in the process of remodeling one of the guest rooms. In keeping with our desire to be true to period authenticity, I pulled up the room's wall-to-wall carpeting to get back to the original hardwood floor. That's when I found the strange carving."

"A carving?" Suddenly, Dean's interest was piqued. "What was strange about it?"

"Well, for one thing," Dennis admitted, "it's location is more than a tad bit strange. It's carved into the floorboard just inside the room. I had the bedroom door closed and was down on my knees pulling up the carpet and padding when I found it. Otherwise, I'd have never seen it. It's nearly invisible from a standing position or when the door is open. It's almost as though whoever carved it _intended _for it to be unnoticeable unless you were on your knees. Crazy, huh?"

"That is crazy," Dean laughed out nervously. _Yeah, _Dean thought, _crazy like a fox! Colt would have known __the only people likely to be on their knees at the base of a door would be hunters laying a salt line. Sammy, I may just owe you an apology after all. This hunt may end up being a heck of a lot more than the wild goose chase I thought it was. _

The thought of his little brother had Dean looking at his watch again. It was getting beyond unusual for Sam to be _this _late in getting out of bed. Not only that, but Sam would _definitely _want to follow up the Wilcox's story and do some heavy-duty research on the origins and meaning of the symbol.

"Anything else that you can tell me about the carving?"

"Just that we've never seen anything like it and we've come up empty-handed on why it's there or what it's supposed to mean despite some very extensive investigation."

"Would we be able to get a look at the symbol? I know it would make Sam's day...the way he loves these old houses, and all."

"Oh, sweetie," Debra gushed apologetically. "I'd love to let you and Sam have a look at it, but that's the room that Cameron is booked into right now and it wouldn't be right to invade his privacy. When he checks out, perhaps?"

"Right. Of course," Dean agreed begrudgingly as he stole another look at his watch. "So what makes you think that Samuel Colt might have carved the symbol and not the home's original owner...or someone more modern, for that matter?"

"The initials 'S. P. C.' are incorporated into the carving's design," Dennis explained. "At first, we thought it _was _the original owner's initials, especially when we learned his name was Samuel Campbell. That could account for the 'S. C.' initials, but since we weren't able to find out what Samuel Campbell's middle name might have been, we couldn't account for the 'P' initial. With that in mind, the carving alone just didn't prove or disprove the Colt story."

"We did more research, hoping someone from the Campbell family line could solve the mystery of the carving or, at the very least, supply us with Campbell's middle initial. Eventually, I was able to trace the owner's descendants, but...," Debra put her hand to her mouth and a look of deep sadness crossed her face and her eyes became moist. "Oh, dear."

Dennis reached over, embracing his wife's hand lovingly, the softness in his eyes conveying his empathy for his wife's kind and sensitive nature.

"We thought, possibly, a descendant could help us unlock the carving's secrets," Dennis spoke up. "But it wasn't meant to be. Tragedy just seemed to haunt each generation of Campbells. The last descendants we found, another Samuel Campbell and his wife, died in what the authorities called an apparent murder-suicide and their only child, a daughter, died tragically a decade or so later in a house fire in Kansas."

The innkeeper looked affectionately at his wife who was now crying softly. "The search had taken so much out of Debra emotionally," Dennis pointed out. "The Campbells, so many of them dying so young, as though fate had it out for them; well, as you can see, the tragedy of it all really got to her. The S. P. C. initials fit with 'Samuel Paterson Colt' so we agreed to stop looking...agreed it was just better to stick with the romantic notion of an Old West legend riding mysteriously into town and taking lodging here before riding off just as mysteriously."

Dean inhaled deeply before letting it out slowly as he nodded silently and considered the Wilcox's tale. "Well, as I said, we'd love to have a look at the carving. My brother's a big history buff and, geeky as it sounds, Sam's really good at deciphering the meanings of symbols."

Debra chuckled softly at Dean's ribbing of his brother and mopped at the tears that still brimmed at her eyes. "Speaking of Sam, where's that adorable little brother of yours hiding himself this morning?"

The eldest Winchester boy peered at the face of his watch and frowned at the numbers displayed there. They'd officially gone beyond 'unusually late' for Sam to sleep in and straight on into the territory of 'unheard of'.

"Good question," Dean admitted. "He's usually up, stomping around with the roosters. If you'll excuse me."

Dean slipped gracefully from the tall kitchen stool, passed through into the hallway and proceeded up the steps towards their rooms. As he passed Bobby's room, he could hear the shower running and the muffled sounds of the older hunter's voice straining to hit the notes of some unrecognizably out-of-key song.

Breezing up to his brother's door, Dean stopped long enough to rap his knuckles hard on the aged wood and speak through the closed door. "Up and at 'em, Princess. Daylight's burnin' and I've got some new info on your buddy, Colt, that I think you might find interesting."

As he turned and walked the remaining few feet to his own bedroom door, Dean half-expected Sam's door to come flying open, his journal-obsessed sibling eager to pump him for the tidbits he'd gained this morning. Instead, Dean crossed the threshold into his room unimpeded by an excited and exuberant little brother and made the turn into the adjoining bathroom.

He hadn't taken the time to shave yet this morning. Had anyone asked, he hadn't done so for fear his electric razor would wake Sam when he had had a rare chance to sleep in. The real reason, though, was that the thought of a steaming hot cup of coffee had been far more tempting and alluring than Dean's current level of willpower could have sustained. That temptation already quelled, Dean pushed the razor's plug into the wall socket and prepared to get the job done. First though, he decided that a bit more harassment of his little brother was in order. Grasping the edge of the bathroom doorsill, he leaned into Sam's room.

"Sammy! Come on! Get the lead out!"

The rumpled mound of blankets stirred minimally, a muffled and unintelligible protest rolling out from underneath them as Dean ducked back into the bathroom to shave away two day's worth of five o'clock shadow.

"As articulate as ever, I see," Dean called out mockingly from his position in front of the mirror. The buzzing wheeze of the electric razor drowning out any retort that came from Sam's room and Dean was happy to think that he'd once again gotten the better of his younger brother.

When Dean finished shaving, he bent and splashed cool water on his face with such enthusiasm that tiny tsunamis washed down his forearms and dripped onto the countertop below. Grabbing the hand towel from its hanger, he roughly mopped at his wet arms before dropping the damp towel onto the water-logged counter.

He snatched up his toothbrush and applied an inordinately excessive amount of toothpaste before shoving the instrument into his mouth and working it quickly backwards and forwards. Then Dean finished up, spitting the foamy residue into the sink and following up, first, with a noisy gargling of tap water and then an equally obnoxious trilling of mouthwash.

The hand towel was now sopping wet from sitting in the puddles of splashed water that had flooded the countertop, but Dean used it to wipe at his mouth as he once again poked his head out into his brother's room. He expected to find Sam dressing, his injured right hand and arm frustrating him with its slow and uncoordinated attempts at tying, zipping or buttoning the various pieces of attire. Instead, Sam was still hibernating under the heavy covers, the whole of his over-sized body obscured from sight, save for the huge boat of a foot that stuck out beyond the reach of the bed linens.

"Geez, Sammy, it's nearly ten A. M. Let's go!" Dean lobbed the saturated towel at Sam's exposed foot and then quickly dove back into the safety zone of the bathroom and then on into his own room, as the wet cloth hit its mark with a resounding and moist 'splootching' sound.

He'd expected an angry bellow followed by an avalanche of baby brother-style bitching, but there was nothing but a heavy silence hanging in the air. Dean silently crept back through the adjoining bathroom, cautiously leaning around the frame of the door lest Sam be lying in wait to ambush him in a quest for revenge. Nothing had changed, though, beyond the fact that Sam had drawn his foot partially back under the towering mound of covers.

Looking at the condition of his kid brother's bed, Dean chuckled quietly to himself. The sight took him back to the years when Sam was still young and innocent. _Haven't seen you burrow like that, bro, since you were a kid and you were scared about the monster under your bed._

A sudden realization hit Dean with a force that took his breath away.

_...or you were sick._

"Sam?" Dean called tentatively as he crossed the room. "**Sammy**. I swear to God if you're just lying there playing 'possum..."

Dean's mind was racing. Sam could simply be using one of the oldest ploys in the book – feigning no response until his query was in range to unleash some wickedly clever form of prank payback. Then again, Sam hadn't exactly been the picture of health lately. But, Sam would know Dean's thoughts would head in that direction and that it would make him easy prey, too. Sam wouldn't do that, though...would he? Make Dean worry over nothing just to get his jollies by one-upping him over a silly practical joke?

"Sammy, come on," Dean called out with a slightly desperate hitch in his voice as he reached out to grab the top blanket. "I surrender, ok? ...........Sammy?"

Dean pulled at the tangled wad of covers, clawing his way more frantically through each layer. When his intrusion still garnered no response from Sam, Dean's heart started pounding against his ribs as adrenalin flooded his system and panic overtook him. _Sam was getting better, wasn't he? He'd had the headache and vomiting, but he'd said that he was doing ok, that he was doing better. He's just toying with me, right?_

"If you're just trying to scare me, you have, alright? You won, Sammy, I'm scared. Ok? You won, now come on."

Dean tugged off the final blanket, expecting Sam to turn over suddenly, his infectious laugh and blazing grin filling the room as his ruse was revealed. Instead, Sam didn't stir and the cheerful floral printed sheets of the bed stood in stark contrast to his huddled form.

Sam lay curled into a loose fetal position on his right side, facing away from Dean, his left arm hugged close to his chest and his heavily bandaged right arm bent at the elbow and extending upward, alongside the pillow. Sam's hair had been dampened by sweat until it hung in delicate curls of chocolate-colored ringlets and his t-shirt clung to his body.

"Sam?" Dean reached out and touched his little brother's shoulder as he called his name, pulling Sam over onto his back when the touch failed to elicit a response. As he flopped listlessly onto his back, Sam's left arm followed the motion before slipping flaccidly down onto the bed next to his body.

"Sammy?" Dean grasped his younger brother by the left shoulder and shook him firmly. "Sammy!"

The younger man's skin was marked by a pasty sallowness that seemed in direct contrast to the intense warmth that billowed from his body. Beads of sweat stippled his face, morphing in size and shape until they merged into droplets so large that they rolled along, tracing a lazy trail of dampness across the heated skin.

Dean's eyes flashed back and forth over his brother's form as his heart beat wildly in his chest. Suddenly, he had no idea what he should do next. His mind whirred with so many possibilities, each scrabbling for Dean's attention that he felt as though his circuits were overloaded.

He shot from the room, noisily tromping down the hallway as quickly as he could before sliding to a stop in front of Bobby's door. Using one of his large fists, he pounded on the locked door as hard as he could manage.

"Bobby!," Dean bellowed desperately while continuing to hammer loudly at the door. "Bobby, open up! Open the door, Goddammit!"

The lock to Bobby's room clicked loudly before the door flew open wide, a frown of irritation marring Bobby's face. "Jesus, Dean! You tryin' to wake the..."

The older hunter never got a chance to finish his sentence as Dean quickly cut him off.

"Sam," Dean panted, his heart thumping so hard in his chest that he was doubled partway over, having trouble catching his breath. "I....need.....the stuff."

Before the confused hunter could get any details as to what Dean was going on about, the younger man had roughly pushed his way in and was frantically searching the room, digging into the various drawers and bags, their contents spilled haphazardly wherever they fell.

"Where are they?!"

"Where's what," Bobby questioned angrily, his irritation growing as Dean continued trashing his room without explanation. "Jesus, Dean, what the hell's gotten into you?"

"The medical supplies! I need the medical supplies!" Seconds later, he found what he was looking for tucked into the shadows of the back corner of the closet, easily accessible but safely hidden from any prying eyes that might happen to be around. Gathering up the duffel bags that he needed, Dean uttered four words that made Bobby's blood run cold, before dashing back out the door. "Something's wrong with Sam!"

* * *

**To be continued...**

* * *

A/N: "Gimme Shelter" is a track from The Rolling Stones' 1969 album, 'Let It Bleed'. It's one of those rare Stones tracks that includes a female guest vocalist, Merry Clayton. The lyrics of the song tell the tale of seeking shelter from a storm amid devastation and the apocalyptic collapse of society. I felt it was a good connection with Samuel Colt needing shelter at the Campbell house in order to prevent the revolver from falling into the hands of demons, an act that would only cause devastation and apocalyptic events.


	12. Behind the Wall of Sleep

**Disclaimer: **As always, completely un-beta'd so any mistakes have been, are, and will continue to be my own. No profit, yada, yada, yada.

**A/N: **Before we go any further, I'd like to thank whomever nominated this story's pre-quel, 'Crotalus', for the 2008 Holiday Limp!Sam Awards on LiveJournal. I was deeply touched that you felt my work was worthy and, although I did not win my category (Best Intubation), I was more than honored to be featured with so many other talented (and apparently equally sadistic) writers!

Now, for the boring part...This chapter is, once again, about 2 pages shorter than my usual but I was having trouble getting out what I was seeing in my mind and it has taken WAY longer than I wanted. Therefore, in order that I could at least get you a _smidge_ of Limp!Sam, I'm posting what I have completed. Although it's short, I hope the limpness meets everyone's approval and, take heart, that just means there's still plenty of Limp!Sam for the _next _chapter, too!

_Italics _in the body of the new chapter are private, unvoiced thoughts of the various characters, principally Sam and Dean.

* * *

**From the previous chapter:**

_He shot from the room, noisily tromping down the hallway as quickly as he could before sliding to a stop in front of Bobby's door. Using one of his large fists, he pounded on the locked door as hard as he could manage."Bobby!," Dean bellowed desperately while continuing to hammer loudly at the door. "Bobby, open up! Open the door, Goddammit!" _

_The lock to Bobby's room clicked loudly before the door flew open wide, a frown of irritation marring Bobby's face. "Jesus, Dean! You tryin' to wake the..."_

_The older hunter never got a chance to finish his sentence as Dean quickly cut him off._

"_Sam," Dean panted, his heart thumping so hard in his chest that he was doubled partway over, having trouble catching his breath. "I....need.....the stuff."_

_Before the confused hunter could get any details as to what Dean was going on about, the younger man had roughly pushed his way in and was frantically searching the room, digging into the various drawers and bags, their contents spilled haphazardly wherever they fell._

"_Where are they?!"_

"_Where's what," Bobby questioned angrily, his irritation growing as Dean continued trashing his room without explanation. "Jesus, Dean, what the hell's gotten into you?"_

_I need the medical supplies!" Seconds later, he found what he was looking for tucked into the shadows of the back corner of the closet, easily accessible but safely hidden from any prying eyes that might happen to be around. Gathering up the duffel bags that he needed, Dean uttered four words that made Bobby's blood run cold, before dashing back out the door. "Something's wrong with Sam!"_

* * *

**Atrox**

**Chapter 11: Behind the Wall of Sleep**

Bobby turned and catapulted himself from the room, sprinting down the hall on Dean's heels, neither one giving thought to the other guests and the disturbance the thundering sounds of their heavy boots clattering along on the hardwood floors would cause. Dean had already made it to Sam's side, the bags tossed into a heap next to the bed, when Bobby rounded the doorframe.

Dean was hunched over his brother's supine form, calling his name and jostling his shoulder. The boy was impossibly pale and soaked with sweat. Bobby had seen the young man sick in the past, even knew that he had a penchant for running unusually high temps when he was ill, but he'd never seen Sam quite like this. Now it was blatantly clear the reason for Dean's rather uncharacteristically unhinged behavior this morning.

"Sammy! Sammy, wake up!"

_It can't be happening. Not again. Not after everything else. First the snakebite, then the infection and __now...now_...**. **

Dean wasn't sure _what _now, other than that Sam was sick again..._really_ sick...and that just wasn't right. Sam had been doing better. He'd seen it with his own eyes, heard it confirmed from Sam's own lips and, no, this just couldn't be happening again.

Dean shook his baby brother hard again, the young man's limbs bouncing loosely with the motion before he curled in on himself with a soft whimper of protest at the intrusion. Dean easily pulled Sam over onto his back again and an additional nudge had the younger boy's hazel green eyes finally fluttering open.

"Oh, thank God," Dean whispered in relief as Sam blinked up at him with red-rimmed eyes. It didn't change the fact that Sam was sick, but at least he was _conscious _and sick and Dean was more than willing to accept whatever little blessings he could get. The fact that the lack of awareness that had shone from Sam's eyes when he initially opened them was now slowly clearing didn't hurt, either.

" 'm col'." Sam's voice was thick and rough, the words slurring out sloppily over top of his quickened breathing. His heavy eyelids blinked unnaturally slowly over his fever-glazed eyes and Dean could see that Sam was already struggling just to keep them open.

"Far from it, kiddo," Dean asserted after he placed his hand on his brother's hot forehead. Then, taking hold of the thermometer that Bobby proffered, he held it up for Sam to see before slipping it into the young hunter's mouth. "Gotta know how bad this is."

"What in tarnation is going on up here? What's all the yelling about?" The annoyed sounds of Dennis' rich baritone filtered in from the hall, the words growing louder and more stern as he made his way from the stairwell. Seconds later, both he and Debra appeared in the open doorway of Sam's room.

"It sounds like a herd of buffalo are stampeding thr-," Debra's voice clipped to a sudden stop as she and her husband surveyed the scene in front of them, eyes wide and mouths wider, in shock. Dean was on his knees next to the bed, Bobby hunched over next to him, and Sam lay sprawled on the bed, his t-shirt and boxers so damp with sweat that they were practically glued to his skin. To make matters worse, the boy was about as out of it as either of them had ever seen anyone. "Good God. He looks terrible! Is he...is he ok?"

Dean didn't bother to answer, instead, pulling the thermometer from between Sam's dry lips as the indicator chimes sounded. He peered at the LCD display and turned to his old friend with uncertainty in his eyes. They'd dodged a bullet with Sam's relatively minor fever back in Idaho, but this time it appeared that things would be different. Whatever was going on with Sam, his body was already in overdrive trying to combat it.

"103.3," Dean murmured softly as he once again stared fretfully at the thermometer's readout. He turned and peered at Bobby through tear-filled eyes. "It's the arm, isn't it, Bobby? The infection's back, isn't it?"

"We don't know that, Dean." Bobby was doing his best to be reassuring but his thoughts had immediately headed in the same direction. He eyed the feverish young man in front of him with concern. It troubled him that, unless his older brother was verbally or physically prodding him, Sam's eyes slipped quickly shut again. "We can't go losing it now. If we're going to help him, we need to go at this with our heads screwed on straight."

Dean sucked in a huge breath, blowing it slowly out and nodding sharply at Bobby's words just as a figure appeared at their sides. Such was their concern for Sam that neither Dean nor Bobby had noticed Dennis slip into the nearby bathroom until he stood next to them. "Here," Dennis stated, offering up some cool, damp washcloths. "Maybe if we sponge him off, we can get his fever down some."

"You two get started," Bobby directed as he pushed to his full height, a cold pit of fear settling in his stomach. Sam's body had already steamrolled well beyond his long-established boiling point of 101.5 and, if he held true to form, his temperature was still likely to go up, maybe as much as another degree, before evening off. If they wanted to head it off, they were going to need to act with commonsense, skill and speed. "I saw Sam tossin' the empty Motrin bottle out yesterday, but I'm gonna hunt around to see if he still has some Tylenol stowed away in his gear. They're still our best defense at breakin' that fever."

Debra fidgeted nervously. She had formed a quick fondness for the Winchester boys, the youngest one especially, and to see Sam so ill had her quite upset. Even though Dean, Bobby and Dennis seemed confident that they could look after the boy, she felt that it was a fool's errand to mess about with high fevers. Debra had never fancied playing the part of a fool and she had no intention of doing so now, especially where the well-being of such a darling young man was at stake. In her mind, it was time to call in the reinforcements.

"While you three see to Sam, I'm headed downstairs to ring for Dr. Jessup."

"No!" Dean bellowed with a sharpness that surprised even Bobby, before dropping his voice to a more gentle, conciliatory reassurance. "I mean, we're kind of used to dealing with Sam's fevers. I'm sure this is something we can handle on our own."

Bobby knew that Sam's illness had Dean on edge, but he also knew that it had been drilled into the boys their whole lives that you kept your family close, especially when they were vulnerable. Well-intentioned interference from outsiders, even from other hunters, was to be spurned until every measure was exhausted and desperation had set in...and possibly beyond that, as well. It wasn't surprising that Dean's natural and instantaneous response had been to follow his Daddy's orders.

"Nonsense," Debra dismissed with a wave of her hand. "I just wouldn't feel right letting that poor boy suffer so. Dr. Jessup did wonders for Dennis when he threw his back out a few years ago, didn't he, dear?" Mrs. Wilcox didn't even wait for her husband to answer, instead plowing right on without even taking a breath. "I _won't _take 'No' for an answer. That boy needs a doctor's care." With that, Debra swept from the room intent on doing what she thought was right.

Dean frowned deeply as Debra retreated quickly from the room. She had left him no room to argue and, frankly, he wasn't interested in wasting any more time that would be better used in getting Sam's temperature back down and getting to the bottom of why he was so ill. He turned back to his baby brother and tapped lightly at his cheek with the palm of his hand.

"Sam, we need to get your t-shirt off; cool you down. Come on, give us a hand getting your shirt off." _Oh God, Sammy, please. We've got to get your fever down. Got to figure out what's going on._

Sam didn't make any moves to help undress himself, a soft moan and the creasing of his brow his only offering of response, so Dean and Dennis worked in concert, each grasping a portion of the lower hem of Sam's saturated tee and pulling upwards, over the boy's chest. Sam whimpered piteously as Dennis maneuvered his left arm through the sleeve and his head rolled languidly with the jostling as the two men worked the garment over his head. Taking hold of the narrow opening of the sleeve, Dean stretched it as far as the seams would allow and then carefully inched it off over the bulky wrappings on his little brother's right arm. It seemed the more they moved the ailing, young hunter the louder and more pitiful his mewling became.

After removing the shirt, Dean mopped at Sam's flushed forehead and cheeks with the cool cloth, his ministrations causing a small sigh as Sam's head rolled into the comforting touch. Seconds later, Bobby came back with a glass of water and Tylenol. No words passed between the two older hunters; there was no need. Each man seemed to intuitively sense their roles, knew what each needed to do to help Sam, and went about performing their tasks without hesitation or question.

Dean set down the cloth he'd been using to sponge Sam and settled himself on the edge of his bed.

"Sammy? Sammy, open your eyes for me." He started combing his fingers through his baby brother's damp curls, pushing stray hanks out of Sam's face. "Come on, Sammy. You gotta wake up again. We need to get some meds into you. Can you open your eyes again?" _This can't be happening. How could I have screwed up again? I was keeping an eye on you, Sammy. How could I have missed this? How did I not see this coming?_

"That's it, bro," Dean crooned encouragingly as Sam's eyelids lifted slowly. "I'm gonna help you sit up and Bobby's gonna help you with the pills. Ok?"

Dean didn't wait for an answer, instead, reaching forward and cupping the back of Sam's head with the palm of his left hand. He then wormed his right arm between his baby brother's shoulders and the soft fluff of the bed, the process earning him a pained whimper from his younger brother.

Sam winced harshly as Dean lifted him forward, jarring and juggling the younger boy's weight in his efforts to slip in and support his sagging upper body from behind. Settling into his spot behind him, Dean shuffled his baby brother's position until he was upright enough to safely swallow the pills. The jostling caused a series of choked sobs to explode from Sam's chest and tears streamed down his cheeks.

"Sammy? What's wrong?"

"Hur's."

Dean's heart felt as though it had been ripped out. Heat was rolling off his brother like he was a blast furnace and, to top it all off, he was sobbing in pain. Something was drastically wrong and, as Dean felt even more of his little brother's weight sink against him, he knew they needed to get to the bottom of this, and now, before the fever crept any higher.

"Where's it hurting, Sam?"

The younger boy's head rolled lazily on Dean's chest and his heavy lids bobbed open and closed lethargically. It was clear Sam was having trouble focusing his thoughts and Dean wondered if, possibly, he might have forgotten or maybe even not realized that he was talking to him.

"Sam? You with us?" Bobby lightly ground his knuckles into the center of Sam's chest until, with a soft groan, the younger boy's fever-glazed eyes slowly turned to meet his own. "Come on, kiddo. Where's it hurt? Your arm?"

Sam's head nodded listlessly as the effects of the fever and the pull of sleep pursued him relentlessly.

"What about your head?" Dean questioned quickly. "Your head still hurt?"

Sam's eyes had drooped closed again but he confirmed Dean's suspicions with another nearly imperceptible nod.

"Is that all? Is it hurting anywhere else?"

"Ev'where." Sam's voicewas little more than a whined whisper and, as his eyes opened once again, Dean could see the rough edge of misery etched into his brother's expressive eyes.

Dean's brow furrowed as he considered Sam's symptoms. _Headache.........body aches.............fever.........__**. **__Maybe it's not the arm. Maybe it's just the flu. Please, God, let it just be a nasty case of the flu._

"Ok, kiddo, ok," Dean reassured. "Let's get this Tylenol into you so we can get you feeling better."

"Down the hatch, Sport," Bobby cajoled as he placed the pills in Sam's mouth and helped him tip the bottle of water to wash them down.

Sam pulled greedily at the cool water, his hands dragging feebly at Bobby's in a silent plea for more as the older hunter withdrew the bottle after only a few swallows.

"Slow down, Sam," Bobby said with a small chuckle. "We're tryin' to _cure_ a fever here, not _drown_ it. You keep goin' like that, you're gonna choke."

Sam leaned back against his older brother's support and whimpered. The kid certainly looked miserable and both Dean and Bobby knew that if Sam was whimpering and whining, he most certainly _felt _that way...or worse. It was a trait the boys had exhibited since the day Bobby had first laid eyes on them, probably one of the few constants in their inconsistent lives – Winchester's _**don't **_whine.

"More."

Dean wasn't even sure he heard it it was spoken so softly, but realized that he had when he saw Bobby lift the bottle to Sam's lips a second time.

"Just go slow, ok?" Although he'd seen Bobby nurse both of them through various illnesses and injuries through the years, it still surprised Dean how tender and soft spoken the usually gruff junkman-turned-hunter could be.

Three additional swallows was all Sam could take before collapsing his whole weight back against his brother in complete exhaustion. Satisfied that the pills had gone down and Sam was in no danger of choking on them, Dean slipped as carefully as he could from behind his little brother and eased him back to the bed.

"Try to get some rest now, Sammy," Dean encouraged. His large, calloused hand lingered on Sam's chest, the quickened thud, thud, thud of his sibling's heartbeat and the stilted panting of his breaths at once assuring and concerning. "Bobby and I are gonna be right here. We'll get you some more water in a little while."

**ooo000ooo**

His cocoon had been warm and comforting on his aching body. Suddenly, it was gone, replaced by violent, turbulent motion and a penetrating chill that crawled menacingly up Sam's back. His foggy brain groped clumsily in the darkness to identify the threat but awareness eluded him until, with no better choice at hand, he chose no greater defense than to curl in on himself with a whimper. Perhaps, if he showed no resistance, showed complete defenselessness, that the creature would, at the very least, honor him with a quick, merciful death.

One jerk of the creature's large, powerful mitt pulled him onto his back but Sam remained limp and passive, welcoming the quick end. For as many differences as there were between the natural and the supernatural, Sam knew there were similarities, as well. No matter the kind, killing was always easiest and most efficient when the prey's soft underbelly was exposed – major organs quickly eviscerated with a mighty swipe of gleaming, razor-sharp claws; windpipe crushed and torn with just one bite of serrated teeth set in vise-like jaws.

Sam waited for it to come; waited for the killing blow the creature's primal instincts would surely bring. Only...nothing. No claws. No teeth. No hot, putrid breath. Just a firm, almost insistent, nudge. He didn't understand. Was the creature toying with him before it killed, much like a cat toy's with a mouse? What did it want? Did it want him to fight? Would that make the kill that much more satisfying?

The uncertainty gnawed at him so he forced his eyes open, prepared to face the creature that would surely take his life. He blinked several times, trying to pull the nondescript form in front of him into focus. It took several tries but the colors began to crystallize into a definitive shape. Dean?

"Oh, thank God."

_Yeah, it is Dean. That's good. He can keep watch for the creature 'cause I'm just too tired...and cold._

" 'm col'."

_Huh. I thought I'd said that right but it didn't sound right. Sounded kind of thick and awkwardly slurred. Have I been drinking? Dean's gonna be pissed...just like at the Pierpont Inn. 'What were you thinking? Drinking on a job.' Oh, well, he's just gonna have to be miffed later 'cause I can't stay awake. Sleep now, get yelled at later._

"Far from it, kiddo."

Sam felt Dean's large hand lift from his forehead before presenting a thermometer and slipping it into his mouth.

"Gotta know how bad this is."

_Fever? I've got a fever? No wonder I feel like shit._

Muffled voices filtered into Sam's tenuous awareness but it was taking everything he had to center on Dean. He could tell that Debra and Dennis had arrived in the room but he just couldn't seem to spare the energy to try to figure out what they were saying. Instead, he allowed the sultry song of sleep to lure him away.

**ooo000ooo**

_What now? Can't you see I'm tired? Can't you see I don't feel good?_

A light tapping on Sam's cheek had interrupted his fevered slumber and he was vaguely aware that Dean was talking to him but he just felt too miserable to really care.

"Sam, we need to get your t-shirt off; cool you down. Come on, give us a hand getting your shirt off."

Every inch of Sam's body ached. It wasn't just the usual 'gone-one-too-many-rounds-with-a-pissed-off-spirit' kind of ache, either. This was much worse; the kind of aching that bored and dug its way through every muscle and rattled off of his bones.

The way he hurt, he just couldn't bring himself to gather the effort to move, or even to respond with more than a soft moan and the crinkling of his brow. He hoped that that would be enough, but as he felt his shirt being pulled upwards, he knew it hadn't been the answer Dean was looking for.

The fabric of the shirt rubbed against his irritated skin, lighting tiny bonfires of intense itching as it scraped upwards. Sam's groans of discomfort gave way to plaintive whimpers as someone bent the elbow of his left arm and worked it through the sleeve of his sweat-soaked tee sending sharp daggers of pain lancing through the joint.

_Stop, please. Just stop._

He tried, but couldn't even lift his head as the shirt was pulled over top and his head lolled crazily on his shoulders. He was glad when the shirt popped loose as the motion intensified his already near blinding headache and sent his queasy stomach into a frenzy.

Despite his diminished awareness, Sam knew by the series of knife-like jabs along his right arm that Dean was working the last of his shirt over the bulky bandages covering his large, still-healing wound. He tried his best, but as the shirt was removed, inch by inch, his cries took on a life of their own, growing louder with each movement despite his attempts to control them. Suddenly, Sam felt the comfort of a cool cloth on his face and leaned into it with a sigh.

_Please, just let me sleep. If I can sleep, maybe the pain will go away._

All too soon, the soothing touch was gone and Dean's voice once again filtered through Sam's haze.

"Sammy? Sammy, open your eyes for me."

_Why can't you just let me sleep? I don't feel good and all I want is some sleep._

He felt large fingers begin to comb through his hair, pushing sweat-matted hair from his face, and knew that Dean was worried. Dean had never gone for touchy-feely moments, even when Sam was little, except when he was frightened and worried about him and that realization had him attempting to force his heavy lids open once again.

"That's it, bro. I'm gonna help you sit up and Bobby's gonna help you with the pills. Ok?"

_No. No, it's not ok. Doesn't anyone get that it hurts to move? Why can't you just leave me alone and let me wallow in my own misery?_

The next thing Sam knew, he felt one of Dean's hand cupping the back of his head while the other pushed between his back and the bed. Sam cried out again as the movement of his head and the touch on his back sent an odd cacophony of pain and prickly itching cascading through his body.

The unpleasant sensations escalated as he was pulled upward. Sam's stiff, swollen joints screamed in protest and his vertebrae felt as though they ground against one another as he was moved and he found his listless, upright position impossible to maintain on his own. Dean must have sensed it because he quickly, if not gracefully, shuffled in behind Sam's sagging body.

Sam's muscles and ligaments felt as though they were strung tightly between each of his joints, stretched taut like the strings of a piano, and a chorus of pain reverberated through them with each of Dean's movements. Even his older brother's gentlest caresses were magnified into something that was nearly unbearable for Sam. Coupled with the metronomic throbbing of his head and a brewing discomfort in his chest, Sam could stand it no longer and agonized sobs ripped from his chest. He could feel the warm flood of tears rolling down his cheeks but couldn't muster the strength to try to stop them nor care that he couldn't.

"Sammy? What's wrong?"

_God, where do I start? _

"Hur's."

"Where's it hurting, Sam?"

_I hurt so bad and in so many places, how can I possibly tell you? My back, my arms, my legs, my head, my chest, my stomach, even my skin. Every muscle, every cell hurts. How do I tell you that I'd probably feel better if I was dying? Who knows, maybe I _**am **_dying. Just let me go to sleep and die in peace. _

"Sam? You with us?"

Pain exploded across Sam's chest and when he turned towards the irritant, he was staring into Bobby's face.

"Come on, kiddo. Where's it hurt? Your arm?"

The young hunter was exhausted and responded only with a slight nod of his head. He regretted the move as pain spiked through his skull and he allowed his eyes to droop shut against it.

"What about your head? Your head still hurt?"

He nodded again, although this time he was certain to move only slightly and very slowly in an attempt to avoid more pain.

"Is that all?"

_God, Dean, please shut up. Why is it you don't ever want to talk until all I want to do is go back to sleep?_

"Is it hurting anywhere else?"

Sam forced his eyes open again and held Dean's gaze and he expressed his misery in a single whimper.

"Ev'where."

"Ok, kiddo, ok. Let's get this Tylenol into you so we can get you feeling better."

"Down the hatch, Sport."

Sam recognized Bobby's voice again and felt two pills gently fall onto his tongue. Seconds later, he felt the neck of a bottle at his lips and sucked hungrily at the wash of water filling his parched mouth and throat. He swallowed rapidly and reached up to grasp clumsily at the bottle as it was pulled away much too quickly, taking the refreshing liquid with it.

_I need more. I'm so thirsty. Can't I have more? Please?_

"Slow down, Sam. We're tryin' to _cure _a fever, not _drown _it. You keep going' like that, you're gonna choke."

_I don't care! I need more! _

"More."

It was a breathless whisper but it had apparently been enough to get his point across as Bobby once again tilted the bottle against Sam's chapped lips and liquid solace flowed from it.

"Just go slow, ok?"

Sam carefully swallowed three more gulps before slumping against Dean. His chest rose and fell in rough gasps as he tried to quell the growing discomfort in his chest and catch his breath.

The older boy slipped from behind Sam's back and eased him back down on the bed.

"Try to get some rest now, Sammy. Bobby and I are gonna be right here. We'll get you some more water in a little while."

**ooo000ooo**

Ten minutes ago, more water had sounded like the greatest idea since bread came sliced. Now, though, Sam couldn't necessarily agree with that assessment. Just as it had been for so many days, Sam's stomach was anything but a warm and welcoming host.

The half-dozen or so swallows of water and two tiny pills had hit bottom like a lead weight and proceeded to stir Sam's stomach like the choppy waves of the sea churn up sand. Despite the exhaustion that pulled at him, the swirling of his stomach and the agony brought on by all of the movement had made sleep a rather elusive entity.

"Hey. What're you still doing awake? I thought I told you to get some rest."

Dean readjusted the dry sheet and light blanket he had covered Sam with. Their Dad had taught them long ago that the temptation to bundle on the covers would only hold the heat in and drive the fever higher. As with most things, moderation was the most prudent course.

"Can't get comfortable."

"I, uh...I could give you a hand finding a better position."

"I don't think it'll make a diff - "

Sam was completely unprepared when it came. One minute his stomach had been unsettled, but essentially ok. The next, it was launching its contents with a force Sam couldn't remember ever experiencing before. He hadn't even had an opportunity to try pushing onto his side before the rancid tasting liquid bubbled up his throat and spilled down across his face, neck and chest.

**ooo000ooo**

Dean had been hovering nearby, keeping a watchful eye on his brother as Bobby had diplomatically thanked Dennis for his help and even more diplomatically dismissed him, he and Dean preferring to care for Sam on their own.

It was while Bobby had seen Dennis out of the room and back down the hallway that Dean had had a chance to really look Sam over. The boy looked horrendous. Dark circles smudged the areas under both eyes and, now that he had been dug out from under his mountain of blankets and the glisten of sweat had been wiped away, his skin appeared taut, dry and lifeless.

As he stood there assessing his brother's state he realized that it Sam still appeared to be awake. Dean wandered over to assure that his younger sibling had not started shivering. Although their Dad had taught them that loading on the blankets could drive a fever higher, he'd also cautioned that allowing someone to shiver could have the same effect.

"Hey. What are you still doing awake? I thought I told you to get some rest."

Not knowing how to contain his nervous energy and wanting to do something..._anything_...to make his brother feel better, Dean bent and smoothed the fresh covers he'd draped over Sam when he'd settled him in bed after helping him to take the Tylenol.

"Can't get comfortable."

Sam's confession stung. Dean's biggest purpose in life was to watch out for his baby brother and, so far anyway, nothing he was doing was helping. _God, I wish those meds would kick in. I wish there was some way I could make things better for you. I wish it was me that was sick instead of you._

"I, uh...I could give you a hand finding a better position."

"I don't think it'll make a diff - "

There was no warning. No retching, no dry heaves, no rippling stomach muscles – nothing. He and his kid brother were talking quietly and in the next instant Sam was choking on his own vomit. It happened so fast that Dean wasn't even able to get Sam pulled over onto his side until after the fetid glop had already splashed across the younger boy and the clean bedlinen that covered him.

As Bobby re-entered the room, the sour stench of stomach contents assaulted his nostrils. Sam still lay on his side, the remnants of the powerful spasms winding down into little more than half-hearted gags.

"He lose it all?"

Dean nodded solemnly in affirmation even as he continued to support Sam's body with one hand. With the other, he traced soft circles onto the surface of his back.

"Even the Tylenol."

"Crap," Bobby admitted with a frown. One of his craggy hands viciously raked its way through his beard as he considered their next move. "Let's get him cleaned up and keep spongin'. It might not bring his temp down but, if nothin' else, it ought to help keep it from gettin' any higher. Then we can try the Tylenol again after his stomach's rested a bit."

"What about the arm?" The tremor in Dean's voice belied his anxiety.

If they were going to have any hope of controlling, let alone beating Sam's fever, Dean knew they'd have to find the source of the infection. And, at this point, Dean was almost willing to bet the Impala that the wound on his little brother's right arm was setting the stage for a repeat performance of the infection they thought they'd conquered at the motel back in Idaho.

"If the infection's back..." Dean trailed off, unwilling to acknowledge the very real likelihood that the infection would be worse and probably more resistant to their treatments the second time around.

"Yeah," Bobby acknowledged, understanding completely what Dean's unfinished statement had implied. "You look after Sam. I'm gonna go see just how keen the Wilcox's are to help."

* * *

**To be continued...**

* * *

A/N: "Behind the Wall of Sleep" is the 3rd track on Black Sabbath's debut album. The album was released on Friday the 13th, 1970 and is widely regarded as one of the first Heavy Metal albums. I figured it was a good chapter title since Sam's illness was worsening while hidden behind a 'wall of sleep'.


	13. Little Lies

**Disclaimer: **This fic is meant as nothing more than the mad ravings of a lunatic. It would be great to make money at this but, alas, it ain't happenin'.

**A/N: **I don't know that I can adequately apologize for such an extended wait between postings but I'm hoping these humble fourteen pages is a start in redeeming myself.

**The Road So Far: **(Set in Season 3) Hoping it contains the key to saving his brother from going to Hell, Sam signs himself out of the hospital and takes off, alone, to search for a mythical journal said to belong to Samuel Colt. As Dean and Bobby chase after him over miles and miles of the American West, Sam struggles to stay one step ahead of them...and his injuries, a job made all the more difficult after being roughed up by a trio of rednecks. Stressed by days on the run and improper care of his wound, Sam falls ill in his hotel room, where Dean and Bobby intercept him and nurse him back to apparent health.

As they head out and rack up more miles following a lead on the journal's whereabouts, Dean and Bobby pick up on seemingly insignificant bumps in Sam's road to recovering his health. But, in his single-minded quest to secure his brother's salvation, Sam lies about the severity of his symptoms in an effort to cover up his deteriorating health. Arriving in Wyoming, they take rooms at a bed & breakfast where they learn of the home's mysterious ties to Colt. Just as Dean is becoming convinced that Sam is right and Colt's journal truly exists, Sam's health takes a dramatic turn for the worse.

* * *

**From the previous chapter:**

_There was no warning. No retching, no dry heaves, no rippling stomach muscles – nothing. He and his kid brother were talking quietly and in the next instant Sam was choking on his own vomit. It happened so fast that Dean wasn't even able to get Sam pulled over onto his side until after the fetid glop had already splashed across the younger boy and the clean bedlinen that covered him._

_As Bobby re-entered the room, the sour stench of stomach contents assaulted his nostrils. Sam still lay on his side, the remnants of the powerful spasms winding down into little more than half-hearted gags._

"_He lose it all?"_

_Dean nodded solemnly in affirmation even as he continued to support Sam's body with one hand. With the other, he traced soft circles onto the surface of his back._

"_Even the Tylenol."_

"_Crap," Bobby admitted with a frown. One of his craggy hands viciously raked its way through his beard as he considered their next move. "Let's get him cleaned up and keep spongin'. It might not bring his temp down but, if nothin' else, it ought to help keep it from gettin' any higher. Then we can try the Tylenol again after his stomach's rested a bit."_

"_What about the arm?" The tremor in Dean's voice belied his anxiety._

_If they were going to have any hope of controlling, let alone beating Sam's fever, Dean knew they'd have to find the source of the infection. And, at this point, Dean was almost willing to bet the Impala that the wound on his little brother's right arm was setting the stage for a repeat performance of the infection they thought they'd conquered at the motel back in Idaho._

"_If the infection's back..." Dean trailed off, unwilling to acknowledge the very real likelihood that the infection would be worse and probably more resistant to their treatments the second time around._

"_Yeah," Bobby acknowledged, understanding completely what Dean's unfinished statement had implied. "You look after Sam. I'm gonna go see just how keen the Wilcox's are to help."_

* * *

**Atrox**

**Chapter 12: Little Lies**

"Please..."

Sam's voice was filled with breathy desperation as he clawed at his older brother's restraining arms. Sweat glistened from the youngest Winchester's flushed, heated skin as he attempted to push up and off the bed.

"You...you don't...understand...**. **Please..."

"It's ok, Sammy. Please, just lay back. You're ok." Dean was trying his best to calm his baby brother but it was becoming painfully obvious that, after climbing from 103.3 to 103.6, the fever had taken quite a hold and was screwing with the clarity of Sam's mind. As usual, it looked as though things were going from bad to worse.

Dean thought back to how great Dennis and Debra had been, quickly agreeing to Bobby's request to open up the use of their extensive herb and flower gardens to be raided for anything that might help his ailing younger brother. The invitation had proven to yield several medicinally promising plants that Bobby hoped might have enough curative effect to keep matters under control until Sam's own body could mount an adequate defense.

Despite Dean's reservations about involving outsiders, the Wilcox's individual talents had combined with Dean and Bobby's own to formulate a near perfect recipe. Debra's green thumb and skillful gardening had assured a large and varied supply of healthy, well-tended herbs and Dennis' remarkably gifted culinary acumen had quickly and easily mobilized his gourmet kitchen and all of it's specialized cooking utensils into an impromptu herbal-style M*A*S*H unit.

With an efficiency and speed that seemed to defy logic, Debra, Dennis and Bobby had quickly turned an abundant harvest of Feverfew, a daisy-like member of the Chrysanthemum family, into a poultice that had been generously applied to Sam's body in an attempt to put the brakes on his rising fever.

"No. No, it's not ok. We've got to go, Dean."

A tinge of fear had started to infuse Sam's tone as his physical struggles intensified and, although Sam had always been more in touch with his emotions than either of the other Winchester men, fear certainly wasn't an emotion that even Sam's sensitive nature normally exhibited. As Bobby worked quickly to finish checking out the wound on Sam's right arm, Dean made a mental note that it was about time to recheck the younger man's temperature, something he intended to do as soon as the ministrations were complete. In the meantime, he'd try to patiently placate his disoriented baby brother, even if it meant playing along with Sam's confused thought processes.

"We will, Sammy. Couple minutes and we'll go."

Bobby had found a sizable mound of Yarrow growing in a quiet corner of Debra Wilcox's garden and carefully separated out a half dozen of the plants, taking roots and all. He'd had Dennis steam the tender flowering tops until a dark blue oil could be expressed from them while he had used the innkeeper's mortar and pestle to crush the purple portion of the plant's root into a fibrous paste.

Taking advantage of it's anti-inflammatory effect, Bobby had had Dennis rub the oil over Sam's aching joints in an effort to give the boy any measure of pain relief he could get. At the same time, Bobby and Dean had carefully unwrapped the thick dressings surrounding Sam's right arm and applied a thick coating of the yarrow root paste, the whole time explaining to Debra that several Plains Indian tribes had used Yarrow in a similar manner to anesthetize wounds and sores.

"No! We've got to go now." Sam pulled insistently at Dean's arm and looked around wildly, his head tilting periodically as though trying to hear some faint and distant sound. "They're out there, Dean. I can hear them."

"It's ok, Sammy. You're safe in here." Dean reached out and cupped the back of his brother's head in his large hand, trying to turn Sam's head so that his wide-eyed and feverish gaze turned towards him. "Look at me. Come on, look at me, bro. That's it." Dean's eyes burned with intensity as he peered straight into his brother's gaze, hoping that even if the words didn't register maybe, just maybe, Sam would see and understand the strength and sanctuary that lay there as he repeated slowly. "I promise you...you're safe."

"It's just the fever messin' with you, boy," Bobby added quickly hoping to reinforce the assurances offered by the older Winchester. "You're sick and not thinkin' straight."

Sam's gaze swiveled anxiously between his brother and his friend. Despite their best attempts, it was clear by the look of annoyance and agitation on Sam's face that their words were doing little to reduce his distress and, quite possibly, were adding to it.

"Why won't you listen to me?" Sam bellowed as he tried to shove out of Dean's strong grasp. "They're here, Dean! We opened the gate to Hell, for God's sake! Hundreds of demons got loose because of us! _**We **_let them escape from Hell and I can hear them out there trying to get in!"

"It's ok, Sammy. Bobby's got it handled. Sigils, talismans, the whole deal, ok? So now you can lay back and take it easy while we finish with your arm, alright?"

"It's not enough! Please, you've got to believe me!"

Sam's fever was making his usually astute, agile hand-to-hand skills inaccurate and uncoordinated, but the violent, unpredictable thrashing of his limbs and the wild bucking of his body still threatened to overwhelm Dean's attempts to control them as well as Bobby's attempts to protect the wounded arm from further injury.

"Dennis, get over here and help us!," Bobby bellowed after spying the bewildered innkeeper a safe distance away with his arms wrapped protectively around his frightened wife. "Grab his legs! We've screwed the pooch if he manages to tear this wound open again."

"Let go of me! You aren't listening," Sam screamed in desperation as Dennis clamped his large, muscular arms around his thighs and pressed the young hunter's knees onto the bed with his body weight. Even the addition of Dennis' help did little to neutralize the writhing and twisting motions that threatened to break the trio's hold. "Why won't you listen to me?!"

"Ok, ok. I'm listening, Sammy, I'm listening," Dean placated breathlessly as he scrambled to maintain the tenuous control he had on his baby brother's upper body. Despite the weight and muscle the boy had lost since their ordeal in the woods, Sam was still proving to be a force to be reckoned with.

After a quick I-know-what-I'm-doing glance in Bobby's direction, Dean added, "Bobby and I'll double-check everything, add a protection spell or two to fortify the place and generally make sure we're locked and loaded – on one condition. While we shore up our defenses, Dennis is gonna help you get some more Tylenol on board. Then I want you to lay back and take it easy. Deal?"

Sam peered up at his older brother, his red-rimmed eyes searching for any sign that Dean was deceiving him. A heavy hush descended over the room as tense seconds passed until, convinced that his requests would be met, Sam nodded quickly and collapsed wearily back onto the bed.

Dean looked to Dennis who was still kneeling next to Sam's bed. "You ok with staying with Sam?"

"Yeah, sure." Dennis proclaimed with a confidence he wasn't completely sure he truly possessed. Although slighter built than the innkeeper, the kid had a good three or four inches and thirty or so fewer years on him and, if he got as confused and combative as he had been, well, there'd be no holding him back. "I...I'm sure we'll be fine."

"Just don't let him bamboozle you on the water," Bobby added, narrowing his eyes accusingly in Sam's direction. "His stomach was a bit touchy earlier."

"Got it. Easy on the water."

"What should I..." Debra wiped at several tears that had skittered down across her cheeks and fear filled her eyes. Her young house guest had been sick, probably sicker than she'd ever seen anyone, but it seemed as though he had been holding his own. Then, as quickly as though someone had flipped a switch, the sweet, tender boy she'd first met a day or so ago had made a sudden turn to inconsolable disorientation and unfettered belligerence. It could only mean one thing – despite their efforts Sam's illness was only growing worse.

It wasn't calming her fears, either, that she'd been told that Dr. Jessup would be gone most of the day on one of his bi-monthly trips to the tiny clinic that served the furthest reaches of the Wind River Indian Reservation. Until the physician could finish up at the clinic and make his way back over the rugged and windswept buttes of the reservation, it looked as though they were on their own. "Is there s-something I can do for him?"

Bobby walked over to where Debra was standing and took her hands in his. "Of course you can," he crooned sympathetically. "You can help us put Sam's mind at ease."

A wavering smile spread across Debra's face at the thought of be able to do something to help to comfort the youngest Winchester.

"I'll need you to gather some more herbs for me, ok?"

"Whatever you need," Debra said eagerly. "You name it and anything in any of our gardens...anything in the house...is yours."

Bobby chuckled heartily. "I appreciate that, but all I think I'll need is a few sprigs of dried sage, some caraway and five fresh blackberry leaves."

"Gimme five minutes," Debra exclaimed as she practically sprinted from the room.

"Oh," Bobby remembered suddenly, "...we'll need four white candles, too!"

"You got it!" the innkeeper's wife yelled back as she rumbled quickly down the stairs in search of the needed supplies.

"Alright, then, Sammy. Dennis'll be staying with you," Dean reinforced. "I need you to relax, though, ok? 'Cause if I find out you gave him a hard time..."

"I...I won't. Please...just check."

"Good boy," Dean declared as his large hand patted the center of his younger brother's heaving chest. "You rest and Bobby and I'll handle everything."

Dean gave Sam a light squeeze of his shoulder when he saw his little brother's body visibly relax even further. "Bobby," Dean added as he rose, a quick sidewards jerk of his head indicating that he wanted the older hunter to follow him. The two of them turned from the bed and strode across the room, not stopping until they were out of earshot of both Sam and Dennis.

"What kind of cockamamie scheme are you hatchin', Dean?" Bobby asked quietly as the duo huddled in the far corner of the room. "You know better than to be talkin' shop in front of civilians."

"What else was I supposed to do? It wasn't like Sammy was giving me much choice."

"Yeah, I suppose he didn't." Bobby agreed as he dragged a hand through his scraggly beard. "Typical bull-headed Winchester," he added with a low grumble. "You'd think, for once, one of you'd actually manage to not complicate my life."

Bobby's comment elicited nothing more from Dean than a weak, crooked smile of acknowledgment. There were other far more important things on the horizon. Dean glanced nervously back at his brother. "Do you think we've got anything to worry about?"

"Well, we still haven't gotten a good enough look at that arm to know what we're dealin' with and that fever's..."

"No, not that. Do you think Sammy's right about the Hell Gate demons? Should we be circling the wagons against an all-out demon offensive?"

The older hunter's eyes narrowed as he considered Dean's questions. "You think that Sam's onto somethin'?"

"I don't know. Maybe." Dean raked his hand through his spiky blonde hair before letting it slap exasperatedly against his thigh. He had finally started to relax a little after days of chasing his brother across the desert, followed by sleepless nights of watching over him after finding Sam passed out on the floor of a Nevada motel and now here they were being faced with yet another possible supernatural threat. About now, that was one source of stress he could do without.

Dean slipped a stubby finger between the curtain panels of the nearby window and pulled them apart just far enough to allow him to view the grounds outside and then allowed the curtain to fall silently shut again. "Nothing, nada, zilch. No demon zombies, no black smoke, no flickering lights. Hell, I don't know, Bobby. I'm just not feeling the vibes. We could be wasting time on a threat that doesn't even exist. We both know Sam's history with fevers – how they affect his thinking."

"And what if this fever is helpin' him tap into some sort of...I don't know...," Bobby waved his meaty hand around vaguely in the air as he searched for the best descriptive phrase. "...residual psychic mojo or something?"

"So you think Sam's right – that we're in for a full-on assault? That he's still got the 'shining' buried somewhere deep inside and the fever's bringing it out?"

"I'm not sayin' nothin'...'cept that we can't be too careful. Sam's in no shape to defend himself and we won't be there to do it _for _him if we're up to our asses in demons. He's vulnerable, Dean...and so are Debra, Dennis and every other innocent in this house. What was the first thing I taught you about safe-houses, boy?"

"The difference between a hunter's safe-house and a _dead _hunter's safe-house is perimeter defenses."

"And?," Bobby prodded.

Dean rolled his eyes at being quizzed like some young, rookie hunter. "When it comes to perimeter defenses; when in doubt, check 'em out."

"That's my boy," Bobby praised, hooking a hand behind Dean's neck and giving him an affectionate shake. "Anyways," he finished as he glanced over at Sam's restless form on the bed. "Do you really think that brother of yours is gonna pipe down and cooperate if we _don't _do it? You take the basement and the first floor. I'll take this floor and the attic. Double check all of the sigils and wards. Add anything you think'll help."

Bobby began to turn away then quickly turned back. "For that matter, add 'em even if you _don't_ think they'll help. I doubt there's anything to all of this other than just Sam's fever talkin' but, if there is, we're gonna need all of the help we can get."

**ooo000ooo**

"...globus medicatus cingi aversabilis Malus."

With the last of the incantation recited, Bobby moved systematically between the four white candles that had been placed in each corner of the room. At each one, he scattered the herbs he'd carefully arranged with practiced precision at the base of candles then tipped out just enough holy water from Dean's silver flask to dampen his fingers and pinched out each flame with a quiet sizzle.

As the last flame was smothered, Sam's head dropped heavily back onto his pillow, a look of relief clearly sweeping across his face. He had felt the need to stay vigilant until all precautions could be taken and it had taken nearly everything he had. Every inch of his body flared with pain and his head pounded to the point that he couldn't even think or see straight any longer, so the completion of the ritual and the chance it's protective measures offered to rest was coming none too soon.

Dean walked to his brother's side. "Nothing like a little anti-demon hoodoo action, huh, little brother?" Taking the damp, loosely held washcloth from the hands of a rather speechless and confounded looking Dennis, Dean sponged at Sam's flushed cheeks and forehead. "Kinda like ADT on steroids!"

Sam's tired chuckle and weak grin proved to Dean that his and Bobby's efforts had had the desired outcome. The young hunter was finally feeling secure enough that he was beginning to relax; his eyelids bobbing heavily as his stressed body cried out for sleep. Perhaps, now, he'd allow them to complete their assessment and care of his right arm.

After several minutes, his breathing remained quickened but, as Sam's eyes fell closed, the rate evened and he slipped quietly into sleep. Dennis looked between Dean and Bobby and spoke quietly so as not to re-awaken the sick young man. "What the hell kind of mumbo-jumbo was all that crap you two were slinging?"

The two hunters shared a silent look, each unsure just what to say. Did they try to explain what they did, what was going on, and hope that Dennis and Debra would understand and accept what they were told? What if the innkeepers didn't accept it, though? What if they were all perceived as dangerous or mentally unstable and were asked to leave? Sam certainly wasn't in any shape to be packed back into the Impala and driven hours and hours across the remote wilderness. If things went down the tubes in usual Winchester fashion they'd be miles from help. And what if Sam was tuning into something that _was _real? If they had the whole of a supernatural army breathing down their necks they'd be incredibly exposed on the open road, a fact that would make them all nothing more than demon fodder.

"Ummm..." Dean was kicking himself for not having an explanation. Ok, so really it would be a well-crafted lie, but he was still kicking himself for not having something at the ready should there be any questions. He had been so focused on his ailing brother that he hadn't given much thought to what their witnesses might think of the things he and Bobby had done.

"You know what?," Dennis said suddenly, holding his hands up in front of him to cut Dean off. "I don't think I even want to know. All I can say is, I think the three of you have watched one too many showings of 'Hellraiser'."

**ooo000ooo**

**2-1/2 hours later**

Bobby screwed his face up into a look of uncertainty as he surveyed the sutured but still-gaping wound marring the area from the palm of Sam's right hand to a position nearly half the distance up the underside of his forearm. The surgery to debride the dead and dying muscle and flesh had left insufficient tissue to completely close the wound, resulting in a more than liberal opportunity for infection. It had been a prospect they'd been playing Russian Roulette with for much longer than either of them would have liked.

When they'd first inspected the wound after the completion of the protection spell had calmed Sam down, parts of the wound appeared to be healing about as well as could be expected. But there had been an area on the underside of Sam's wrist, near the base of the thumb, that had been slightly reddened the day before and it seemed even a bit more reddened now. It was at that point that Bobby had had to admit that he was out of ideas. He'd pulled every herbal trick he'd known out of his bag and it still didn't seem to be enough.

That was when Debra stepped up with an eagerness that she could hardly suppress. She'd been wanting to do something significant for the boy all day, something more than just gathering a few mundane household supplies that the rather eccentric men had used in decidedly unusual ways and she had finally gotten her chance.

Immediately, she'd suggested a poultice of boiled garlic and thyme sprigs, informing the trio of hunters that boiled garlic poultices had become so common during World War II, especially with the Russian Army, that the herbal mash had often been referred to as "Russian Penicillin". The inclusion of thyme, the inn's specialty, had sent Debra off on a long-winded explanation of the herb's history and how the plant contained a chemical called Thymol which became, and still was, the main ingredient in Dr. Lister's now-famous antiseptic, Listerine.

"What's wrong?" Dean had watched the older hunter's every move as he'd peeled away the poultice that had been applied a few hours before.

Bobby sighed heavily before looking up and scanning the three sets of eyes that peered expectantly back at him. Dean had, typically, refused to leave Sam's side and, despite the requirements of running the bed and breakfast and seeing to the other guest's needs, Debra and Dennis had still been incredibly attentive.

"Well...uh...there's...," Bobby stammered, unsure just how to break the news that Dean wouldn't go completely ballistic. "You see...it's..."

Bobby could see imperceptible changes in Dean's mood the longer he stalled. The older hunter knew that he could either spit it out and have a chance of dampening the eruption that would surely follow or continue to stall and be hopelessly towed under by the uncontrollable tide of emotion that was inexorably building just beneath the surface. Before he could formulate the best way to blurt it out, Dean beat him to it.

"The arm's worse."

**ooo000ooo**

_**August 1992**_

_The door to the ramshackle home burst open as though it had been blown off its hinges by the fury of a violent storm. In this case, the unstoppable force behind the door's rough treatment had been a large, heavily booted foot and the tempest attached to it had been an angry, yet somewhat shaken, John Winchester._

"_Sammy, clear that stuff off the bed. Now!," John commanded as he helped Dean to limp painfully through the door. John stooped awkwardly so that he could keep his son's left arm thrown over his strong, broad shoulders while Dean wrapped the other arm instinctively across his own mid-section and curled it protectively around his ribs. _

_The youngest Winchester allowed the strap of the first aid bag to slip from his shoulder, letting the canvas bag plop lightly to the floor between the bed and the small nightstand. Pushing up onto the bed with one knee, Sam haphazardly flipped the multitude of car magazines, candy wrappers, drink cups and assorted other snack bags from Dean's rumpled bed and, sliding down, gave the untidy linens a quick pull to smooth them out as much as possible. Once Dean was settled on the bed, it was doubtful he'd be getting back out anytime soon so Sam wanted to make it as comfortable as he could without wasting any extra time._

_As a gangly nine year old, this had been only Sam's third official hunt; the first one having planted a terrifying, unshakable and paralyzing fear that hunting would, sooner rather than later, get Dad or Dean hurt...or worse._

_The second hunt had been 'routine', or so Dad had said. Despite nearly being knocked off his scrawny legs by the recoil of his ninth birthday gift, a shiny new .45 caliber pistol that he'd received just three short months ago, Sam had somehow managed to aim true enough to bring down the Chupacabra they'd been hunting. For good measure, and to be certain the abomination of nature was truly dead, John had made certain to blast an additional round into the creature's head, right between it's large, lifeless eyes. _

_Sam had received an 'atta boy' from his father - the John Winchester version, anyway; the kind that praised and then took nine-tenths of it back by pointing out everything that could have – should have – been done better. The whole affair had been loathsome...and nauseating...as far as Sam was concerned and the only thing that had kept him from running as far and as fast as he could was the huge grin of enthusiastic and unbridled pride on Dean's face._

_Still, even his brother's pride wasn't enough to make hunting appealing in Sam's mind. And, standing there watching Dean struggle just to make it the short distance to the bed, the clenched teeth, the hisses of pain, the uncertainty etched into his face and, above all, the scarlet splashes of his blood that streaked all of their clothes, it became too much. Suddenly, the betrayal he'd felt when he'd learned the truth about their family secrets that Christmas Eve in Broken Bow was combined with the stark reality of what it meant to live life as a Winchester. A shudder worked through the fledging hunter's body as he finally grasped that he had no choice but to live the life his father had chosen for him, the life of a hunter...a life he had already grown to detest and prayed that he could one day escape._

_As Dean settled gingerly on the bed, John helping him to swing his injured leg in, Sam started pulling items from the first aid kit that he thought his father would need. As he was lining them methodically on the nearby bed stand a sudden, sharp intake in breath pulled his attention back to his injured brother. _

_A spike of guilt flashed through him as he saw the hard grimace on his brother's face and the way he tried to arch his back away from the soft surface of the bed. Sam's intentions had been good, if not a little selfish, but events had quickly spiraled out of his control and culminated in the object of their hunt doing its best to maul his big brother before, literally, tossing him aside and setting its sights on young Sam, himself. Had John not crashed through the brush and broken out into the clearing at just the right moment, both boys probably would have ended up...well, Sam just didn't want to think about it._

_John grabbed at the edges of a large slash in the leg of Dean's pants and tore the bloody jeans away. The fabric fell away revealing several long, ragged lacerations littered with bits of dirt, pine needles and cloth. The wounds were deep and filthy. A major concern for infection, they would be time consuming to cleanse and suture closed but they, thankfully, wouldn't be life threatening. The eldest Winchester wouldn't breathe easily, though, until he'd completed a head-to-toe assessment. _

"_How many fingers, Dean?" John inquired as he held his right hand up for Dean to see. His oldest son hadn't been knocked completely out, but the impact he took with the tree had been hard enough that the boy had clearly been dazed for several minutes afterward. Most likely it was nothing more than a case of having his bell rung, but head injuries could be serious and John knew better than to dismiss things without checking. _

"_Two."_

"_Good. Now follow my finger." John held up only his index finger, moving it, first up, then down, then side to side. _

_Dean, at the age of 13, had already performed this drill enough to know to hold his head still and track his father's movements with his eyes only. "I'm ok, Dad, really."_

"_I'll be the judge of that," John reminded him in a no-nonsense tone, but was inwardly pleased that Dean was easily able to equally and correctly follow his movements with both eyes._

"_Pick a spot to stare at," John commanded as he produce a small Maglite. "Pupil check."_

_Sam huddled next to the bed, watching as his father checked over his big brother. He could tell the light hurt Dean's eyes a bit but he couldn't see how well they were reacting to the light and he worried his bottom lip with his teeth. It was really starting to eat him up that he was unscathed, save for a few scratches he'd gotten from the brambles on their mad dash back to the Impala with an injured Dean, who, he might add, wouldn't have been hurt if not for something he did._

"_Awright. Looks good," John proclaimed as he gently slid his hand behind his son's neck and pressed gently on the bones. "Your neck hurt at all?"_

"_No," Dean grunted as he tried to carefully shimmy himself into a more comfortable position. "Arghh. But my back...sure does." _

"_Sam, help me roll him over so I can take a look at his back."_

_As John walked around to the other side of the bed, Sam moved in closer, positioning himself so that he could assist by cupping one hand over Dean's right shoulder and the other over Dean's right hip. He hated to have to do this and tears brimmed in his eyes because he knew it was going to cause his older brother even more pain._

"_I'm ok, Sammy." _

"_I'm so sorry, Dean," Sam confessed as a single tear escaped down his cheek. He wanted to go on, to explain everything to Dean, but he was cut off by his father's directive._

"_We're gonna roll 'im on three, Sam, as one unit – just like we've practiced. One...two...three!"_

_Sam had been careful to turn his brother on his side like a log, just as John had instructed in their practice sessions, making certain the upper and lower parts of Dean's body turned in unison to avoid any painful twisting that might make an injury worse._

_Despite the care that had been taken, Dean growled a colorful stream of expletives through his teeth and his nostrils flared as he tried to breathe through the intense pain the movement brought._

_Normally, John would have admonished Dean for his language. The boy was starting to get a mouth on him that rivaled any sailor's and it often brought trouble with it. But, injuries granted free license to exercise just about any vocabulary you possessed and, considering the fierce swath of deep blues and purples that accompanied the raw abrasion gracing Dean's back over his right kidney, John could overlook the boy's language. _

_He'd have to keep a close eye on Dean. It could end up being nothing more than deep bruising that would hurt like hell and keep the young hunter laid up for a few weeks. Then again, with the force of the impact centered where it was, a rib fracture that punctured the lung or a lacerated kidney were very real possibilities. John wasn't looking forward to getting up every hour or so to monitor his eldest son for increased shortness of breath or blood in his urine but he almost couldn't help feeling more sorry for the painful and sleepless night Dean would surely have to endure. _

_Still, Dean's injuries didn't excuse the fact that they were the explicit outcome of ignoring a direct order and the longer John thought about it, and the sleep-deprived night ahead of him, the angrier he got. He allowed Dean to roll onto his back once again and a hiss of pain accompanied the change of position._

_That was it – the final straw! Dean wouldn't have gotten hurt if he'd followed orders like he was supposed to. "Dammit it, Dean! Why in the **hell **would you use a nine millimeter Smith & Wesson to try and bring down something as big as a Wampus Cat?"_

_Dean's face colored in embarassment and he had trouble looking his enraged father in the eye. "I...I...**.**"_

"_Spit it out, Dean, 'cause I'd really like to know just why it is that you felt the need to ignore a direct order when I specifically told you that you needed the bigger fire power of the Desert Eagle! Did I not give you a direct order?"_

"_Yes, sir," Dean whispered._

"_What did you say?!" John knew the kid was hurting but he just couldn't stop himself from rounding on him. Mistakes like the ones that were committed tonight get people killed and Dean needed to understand that._

"_Yes, sir," Dean replied more loudly, tears springing to his eyes because he'd disappointed his father. "You gave me a direct order."_

_Sam had begun to fidget nervously at his side and the louder and longer their father went on the more visibly upset he was getting but Dean was trying hard to pay attention to his Dad. Nothing would have angered the man more than for Dean to appear to not be listening. Still, he could swear he could hear his little brother keep saying, "I'm so sorry, Dean" and "This is all my fault" in a sniffled whisper. He knew he'd be taking a dangerous chance to divert his attention enough to ask Sam what he was talking about, so he just reached out and took hold of Sam's hand instead. _

"_Then explain to me just what in Sam Hill convinced you that it was a better idea to bring the Smith & Wesson instead!"_

_Dean looked down at the still un-sutured wounds on his leg and thought about how much more painful his admission was going to be than what that injury was. "I brought it because..." Dean felt Sam clamp down even harder on his hand, as though his life depended on not losing hold. "I brought it..."_

_Dean took a huge shuddering breath and blurted it out. Better to do that than risk ratcheting up his father's ire by stalling any longer. "I brought the Smith & Wesson because I couldn't find the Desert Eagle."_

"_Say again?!"_

_"I was being careful, Dad. Honest. I don't know how I could have lost it."_

_"You did **NOT **just say you **lost **the Desert Eagle!"_

_Sam started to whimper and Dean pulled him close. He needed to do as much damage control as he could with at least some sort of explanation, no matter how lame it was. Anyway, lame or not, it was the truth. _

"_I...I...don't know what happened to it. I was sitting out under that big oak out back cleaning a few of the guns like you'd asked. I broke 'em down, cleaned, oiled, reassembled and test fired each one before bringing them back inside."_

_Sam buried his face in Dean's shoulder and started to cry. He tried to get Dean to understand, but between the crying and the muffling effect of his clothing, Dean didn't hear him whimper, "I didn't mean for you to get hurt."_

"_And?" John's patience was wearing even thinner than usual._

"_And," Dean went on, "that's when I realized I'd forgotten to test fire the Smith & Wesson. I went out and fired a few rounds and when I got back, the guns were all where I'd left 'em...except for the Eagle. I looked everywhere but I couldn't find it."_

"_And you didn't think that was something you should tell me?! Christ, Dean, how can I trust you after this?!"_

_Tears brimmed at Dean's eyes and he looked completely devastated by his father's criticism. He tried hard to live up to John's standards and expectations and it stung to his core if he didn't._

"_Leave him alone!" Sam screamed suddenly, tears streaking down his cheeks. "It was my fault! I took the Desert Eagle! It was me! I took it and I hid it!"_

_John's face turned a brilliant shade of vermilion and numerous veins bulged along his neck and forehead. He knew that Sam was young and inexperienced but, if he hadn't heard it with his own ears he wouldn't have believed his son was capable of doing something so utterly irresponsible. What made Sam's offense even worse was, in their lives, even the simplest of transgressions could mean the difference between life and death._

"_Jesus Christ, Sam! What in the hell were you thinking?!" John's thundering voice ripped through the tiny room like a sonic boom. _

_Sam flinched at his father's angry words and shrunk back against Dean instinctively. No matter how he tried to explain himself, the youngest Winchester knew from experience that his father seemed completely incapable of truly understanding him and it seemed as though history was, once again, about to repeat itself. If it hadn't been for the tender way Dean had with him, John's harsh ways would most certainly have turned the sensitive young boy into an emotional cripple long ago._

"_Why'd you want to hide the gun?" Dean asked quietly, no bitterness or accusation behind his words._

"_I...I..." Sam stammered, knowing what he was about to say was only going to send his father past 'angry' to 'beyond livid'. "I...I took it...," Sam started again as he wiped angrily at the tears that rolled unbidden down his face. "...'cause I thought...if you...if you didn't have the gun you needed...then you couldn't hunt. An' if you couldn't hunt..." A series of choked sobs wracked the young hunter's small frame. "...then you couldn't get hurt."_

"_Bang up job on that, Sam!" John bellowed sarcastically. "If I hadn't been there to clean up the mess, God only knows what kind of catastrophe your half-witted scheme could have caused!"_

"_Dad, please," Dean begged. Sam had been butting heads with their Dad more and more since finding John's journal and Dean had taken it upon himself to be the family referee. Right now, refereeing wasn't really what he wanted to do. He just wanted to smooth things over as best he could, try to reassure Sam and make him feel better and then cozy up with the biggest, baddest pain pill he could find. "He's just a kid. Maybe we rushed him too much. He hasn't been hunting all that long. I'm sure if he just sits out a few hunts while he gets more training he'll be back in it better than ever."_

"_I rushed him?! He didn't get enough training?!" John asked incredulously. "Did he tell you this?! 'Cause he sure as hell didn't say a word about it to me!"_

_Dean normally wouldn't talk back to his Dad but he was way too tired and in too much pain to feel like being the tactful peacemaker. Plus, whenever it came to defending Sam, physically or emotionally, Dean was always quick to throw caution to the wind to do whatever it took, even if it meant the rare act of confronting or defying their Dad._

"_Would you have even bothered to listen to him if he had?! Anyway, Sam shouldn't have had to come clean! He's your son, you should have **known **he wasn't ready!"_

"_Sam's been coddled far too long! You were hunting long before his age and you did just fine!"_

"_He's not like us, Dad! He's just not cut out for this life!"_

"_Whether he's like us or not, Sam knew better than to do something like this but he did it anyway! He better **get **cut out for this life...and quick...before he kills someone!"_

_Sam had become more and more distressed as the argument escalated but the thought of being responsible for anyone's death, especially Dean's, finally cracked what little grit and composure the boy had left. Hearing it out loud made the room spin and his stomach flipped nauseatingly. He sagged back against the edge of Dean's bed and sobbed._

"_He was scared! He did what he thought would protect me!"_

"_And it blew up in your face because he decided he didn't need to follow orders! I ought to have his hide for doing something so crazy and dangerous!_

"_I...didn't mean...for this...to happen," Sam wailed between harshly shuddering breaths.  
_

"_Maybe it would have been better if you had just stopped **telling **him how to feel about hunting," Dean shot back at his raging father, "...and **asked** him what he felt before the kid got desperate enough to try fixing things himself!"_

_Dead pulled his little brother in as closely as his injuries would allow, curling an arm protectively around the distraught boy. Sam's breaths were coming in ragged gasps that seemed to defy control, his whole body shook violently and words tumbled across his lips in a nearly incoherent babble._

"_...gotta...believe me...wasn't s'posed...to get hurt...I'm sorry..."_

_John looked like he was ready to blow a gasket and Dean wondered if, perhaps, he'd ventured just a bit too far over the line this time, but it wasn't like he could take it back now. Anyway, if it took some of the heat off Sam or, better yet, got his baby brother even a few more weeks of the normal life he seemed to crave, whatever punishment he'd have to endure would be well worth it._

"_Don't you dare twist this around as being my fault," John roared. "If you want to be mad at me, you go right ahead, but the person you should be mad at is Sam! I can't even imagine what brand of stupidity crawled up his ass that he'd do something like sabotaging a hunt!"_

**ooo000ooo**

**Present day**

"The arm's worse." Dean stared hard at Bobby, hoping with all he had that he was wrong. In his heart, though, he knew what he had seen. The redness around some of the sutures had deepened and a faint but noticeable streak had started to creep away from the borders of the wound. "The infection's back and Sammy's going septic, isn't he? I can't believe this! I spent last night drinking beer and playing stupid parlor games while my brother was up here dying from a systemic infection!

"We don't know that," Bobby yelled angrily. "Sam's as much to blame in all of this as you and me! He must have been feelin' a helluva lot worse than he was lettin' on. Did he tell _you_ about? "Cause he sure as hell didn't say a word about it to me!"

"He shouldn't have _had_ to come clean," Dean hollered in response. "I should have seen what was happening! _You _should have seen it!""

"Sam knew better than to hide something like this, but he did it anyway!"

"Guys..."

"He did it trying to protect me...trying to get to that journal!"

"If your Daddy was still alive, he'd have his hide for doing something so crazy and dangerous!"

"If Dad was still alive, he'd have figured out what Sam was doing long before things got so bad!"

"Guys!..."

"If you want to twist this around and be mad at me, you go right ahead! But the person you need to be mad at is Sam! I can't even imagine what brand of stupidity crawled up his ass that he'd do something like that!"

"_**Guys**_**!**" Dennis' deep baritone had finally cut through the racket made by the two warring hunters and he pointed in Sam's direction.

Debra had cradled Sam to her chest and was rocking him comfortingly. He was clearly quite agitated and his breaths sawed in and out far too rapidly.

"Sammy?" Dean's brow furrowed in concern but Bobby, being slightly closer to the bed, had been able to cross the room first and was already kneeling at Sam and Debra's sides by the time he got there.

"...b'lieve...me...Din't mean...t'hurt..." Despite the raspy regularity of Sam's breathing, the young hunter struggled to find enough air to talk and his lips had taken on a slight, but concerning, dusky hue. He clung to Debra, his eyes full of the anguish only he could feel, and tried frantically to get her to understand. "...please...'m...sorry."

"Sam?" Bobby called to the young hunter. "Sam, what's wrong?" Dean had told Bobby about the blood clot that had gone to Sam's lung while he was still on the ventilator. As he watched the boy gasping hungrily for air, the old man couldn't help but worry that it was happening all over again.

"...my...fault...my...fault...I...did it..."

"Sam! It's ok!" Dean's little brother was really starting to freak him out now. He'd seen Sam sick..._really_ sick...and he'd seen Sam injured, but he honestly couldn't remember a time when he'd seen his brother so altogether out to lunch. It was as though Sam was living in a whole different reality, one completely separate from his own, and was unaware of anything outside what was in his head.

Bobby reached up and cupped Sam's jaw in each of his calloused and grease-stained hands. "Sam," Bobby said slowly and quietly. "I need you to slow your breathing down."

Sam's gaze was slow to settle on the elder hunter despite Bobby's guiding touch. When it finally did, Sam's face twisted in anguish and several large tears rushed down his fiery red cheeks as he grabbed Bobby's wrist in a crushing grip. "Dad! Dad...please...gotta...b'lieve...me..." he wheezed harshly. "I din't...mean...t'do... wanted...t'hurt...him...**. **Please...b'lieve me..._please_!"

"It's alright, Sam. Just calm down, ok?" Bobby turned and looked at Sam's older brother, a mix of concern and confusion flashing in his gray eyes. "What the hell's he going on about, Dean?"

"I...I'm not sure."

Bobby turned back to the boy he looked upon as a son and spoke quietly, reassuringly. "What, Sam? What didn't you mean to do?"

"Din't...wanta...hur' De'. 's...my...my fault."

"I'm ok, buddy," Dean reassured quickly. "You didn't hurt me. See? I'm fine."

"Din't mean...f'it...to happen, Dad. Shouldn't...ha'done...it. All...my fault."

Bobby really wasn't liking how disoriented Sam was right now and it hadn't skipped his notice that, despite feeling scorchingly hot and dry to the touch, Sam was shivering violently. Chances were good that the hunter's temp was already higher than it was earlier and was headed even higher yet.

"I don't understand, Sammy," Dean admitted. "What is it that you shouldn't have done?"

"Hur' De'...'cause...I took it. I'm s'ry, Dad! You...gotta b'lieve...me!" Sam pulled imploringly at Bobby's arm. He just _had _to get his Dad to understand how guilty he felt. "I'm s'ry...I took...the Eagle. Dad? Dad!"

Sudden memories from more than a decade ago roared back into Dean's head. Jesus, the kid was so out of it that Sam's fever-addled brain was misinterpreting his and Bobby's angry words as though he was once again enduring the rage and contempt his father had meted out years ago.

"Took the Eagle?" Bobby questioned. "Whadda you mean, Sam?"

"Please, Dad...gotta...b'lieve me."

Bobby could tell that, with his fever, Sam was mistaking him for his father and seemed to be apologizing for some perceived transgression. Trouble was, he really couldn't make heads nor tails of it enough to know how to respond. The older hunter was at a loss, so he turned to Dean for guidance. "He's not makin' any sense," Bobby complained bitterly.

"He is to me. Just go with it."

Bobby still didn't understand what was going on but Dean had practically raised the boy so he trusted his judgement.

"I believe you, Sam. I do. I know that you didn't mean to hurt Dean. You didn't do it on purpose." He had no idea what it meant, but it seemed important to Sam, so Bobby added, "I forgive you for taking the Eagle."

"You do?"

"Yeah, Sam, I do...and so does Dean. Now, come on, you're sick. Lay back and let us take care of you."

Dean helped Sam to lay back and slipped the thermometer into his mouth. Sam was shivering so badly that Bobby took to holding the device in place to keep it from rattling noisily against the ill hunter's teeth. As they waited for the instrument to do its job, Dean talked candidly with his old friend.

"Thanks, Bobby. Sammy's waited a long time to hear that."

"Why do I have a feeling your Daddy was at the root of all of that?"

"It was a hunt...one of Sammy's first, in fact. The kid was scared...and as green a hunter as there ever was one...and, well, you know how gung-ho Dad was. He had us up against a Wampus Cat long before Sammy should have been. Misguided as it was, Sam thought he could keep me from going on the hunt by taking my Desert Eagle. You know, figured I couldn't hunt if I didn't have a weapon. I took a nine mil instead but it didn't even faze the cat. Damn thing tossed me around like a catnip mouse. When he found out what Sammy had done, Dad rounded on him but good. The kid was already feeling guilty anyway that I ended up hurt..."

"And your Daddy added to his guilt by tearing him into little pieces," Bobby finished for him.

"Damn near shattered him, actually. He'd wake up screaming in the middle of the night for months afterward thinking he'd gotten me killed. Went on so long I started thinking those frickin' nightmares would never go away."

"Dammit, John." Bobby had never understood the need the boys' father had for treating his children the way he had. What real purpose would it possibly serve? Sure, he had wanted to keep them safe, but there were ways of doing it that didn't mean destroying your own kid in the process.

"Yeah, I'm pretty sure that night marked the beginning of the end for Sam and hunting. After that, he was looking for any way out of this life."

Bobby pulled the thermometer from between Sam's lips as soon as the series of tinny chimes sounded. "Dennis got that Tylenol into 'im, right?"

Dean looked at his watch and calculated the amount of time that had passed. "Been about two hours now so it should be at its peak effectiveness."

His mentor's sardonic huff made Dean's gut tighten instinctively and a cold chill crept up his back.

"Peak effectiveness, my ass. We best be comin' up with Plan B, like pronto, 'cause he's _up _another two degrees."

* * *

**To be continued...**

* * *

A/N: The third single to be released from Fleetwood Mac's 1987 album 'Tango in the Night', I thought "Little Lies" was a great choice to highlight the parallels and consequences of Sam's deceptions, past and present.


	14. There's a Doctor

**Disclaimer: **OC's and plot are mine, but nothing else. No money...blah, blah, blah.

**A/N: **I struggled and struggled with this chapter, feeling as though I was losing my way, not knowing what direction the story needed to take. I sat, staring at the computer for weeks, starting, scraping, re-starting, re-scraping and wasn't getting anywhere. Then...EUREKA! Suddenly, the fingers started flying and the story seemed to tell itself. After all of the blood, sweat, tears and consternation, this has actually turned out to be one of my favorite 'Atrox' chapters to date. Hope you like it, too.

Also, not sure what you might call them outside the US or if you even have them, but there's a "breed" of spiders here that have eight super looooooooong legs and we call them 'Daddy Longlegs' or 'Daddy Longleggers'. Knowing that Americanism might help to make a 'Dean-ism' in this chapter a bit more understandable.

* * *

**From the previous chapter:**

_Bobby pulled the thermometer from between Sam's lips as soon as the series of tinny chimes sounded. "Dennis got that Tylenol into 'im, right?"_

_Dean looked at his watch and calculated the amount of time that had passed. "Been about two hours now so it should be at its peak effectiveness."_

_His mentor's sardonic huff made Dean's gut tighten instinctively and a cold chill crept up his back._

_"Peak effectiveness, my ass. We best be comin' up with Plan B, like pronto, 'cause he's up another two degrees."_

* * *

**Atrox**

_There's a man I found could bring us all joy_

_There's a doctor I found could cure the boy_

_Doctor in town can cure the boy_

_There's a man I've found could remove his sorrow_

_He lives in this town let's see him tomorrow_

_Let's see him tomorrow_

-----

"There's a Doctor" - The Who

**Chapter 13: There's a Doctor**

Dean thought he was going to go out of his mind. Sam had always been an overachiever in everything – school, soccer, arguing with their Dad, research...even in the fever department - e_specially_ the fever department. The most normal little cold or flu or intestinal bug that would have the average person feeling crappy, a little off their feed and maybe running a low-grade temp around 101 for a few days, would cause Sam's temperature to stampede its way up the thermometer like a raging bull. In the process, the boy's strength and ability to remain anchored in the here-and-now were ruthlessly trampled underneath, leaving him profoundly weakened and disconcertingly disoriented.

None of this was new to any of them. Both Bobby and Dean had nursed and sponged Sam through more than his share of fevers, most of them over 102, and more than Dean would have liked that had hit 103. Nearly all of them had been devastatingly hard on their younger member. But, as he sat there wracking his brain, the worst the eldest Winchester boy could remember had topped out at a blazing 103.7...until now, that is.

Sam's temp was a ludicrously stifling 105.3 and it firmly placed the trio of hunters in dark, uncertain and uncharted waters...even by the standards of the overachieving youngest Winchester. And that's probably what troubled Dean the most. He'd had plenty of practice handling Sam's fevers over the years. You just didn't have the responsibility of raising a child without weathering the usual illnesses that go along with the territory. But Dean had never encountered a time when Sam's fever was as stubborn as the boy, himself, not dipping, at least a little, with the medication and sponging techniques they'd already used. And now, here they were facing a situation where the techniques had not only failed to reduce the fever, but the damnable numbers were actually going _higher_.

Every saying or piece of advice, accurate or inaccurate, good or bad, that Dean had ever heard about fevers was rambling through his head at breakneck speed. _'Sweat out a fever with lots of blankets'...'Starve a cold and feed a fever'...or is it the other way around?...'Feed a cold and starve a fever'?...'Bathe him in a cold bath'...'Give fever reducing medicine'...'Bathe him in a warm bath'...'Drink cold fluids'...'Don't give medicine'...'Drink hot fluids'...'Rub him down with alcohol'..._

Unsure which was the proper thing to do, Dean decided to take his own course of action. Walking over to the room's air conditioning unit, he turned the thermostat to its lowest setting. He heard a quiet clunk followed by a soft whirring as the machine sprung to life and he felt a small sense of satisfaction that he was doing something, _anything,_ to make his brother more comfortable. It wasn't much, but if the room was cooler, wouldn't Sammy be too?

Dean stuck his hand in front of the unit's vent and, as he waited impatiently for the first rush of refrigerated air, he peered over at his younger brother who laid haphazardly sprawled across his rumpled bed. Finally, feeling the brush of icy chill on his hand and satisfied that the air conditioner was up to the task Dean had set out for it, he trudged back across the room. He dragged the small upholstered chair away from the wall, took up sentry duty on the left side of Sam's bed and did the only thing left for him to do - think.

Bobby's reassurances that their 'Dad' had forgiven Sam for hiding the Desert Eagle had quickly calmed the boy and he'd dropped off into an exhausted sleep. The restful hush had been mercilessly too short but when Sam had reawakened it was as if the meager amount of sleep he'd been granted had been enough to miraculously reset his brain. The few words that he'd spoken had been clear and rational, albeit punctuated with occasional moans of discomfort.

The return of normal, logical thought had been like a sweet balm of serenity to Dean's frayed nerves and he had latched on to it like a lifeline. The lucidity, however, had been tantalizingly fleeting and Sam's thinking quickly succumbed to the bewildering effects of fever, taking with it Dean's renewed hope that they'd already weathered the worst. The disappearance of Sam's hold on reality had also heralded the disappearance of Dennis, Debra and, much to Dean's chagrin, their longtime friend, Bobby.

Dean understood Dennis and Debra not wanting to hang around. Not only had they scared the crap out of the aging couple, whether the innkeepers were willing to admit it or not, with their impromptu demon deflection ritual and Sam's fevered and horrific sounding ramblings, but they also had a bed and breakfast to run.

Dean had heard Dennis tromping down the back stairwell that led to the kitchen and, judging by the various bangs and clatters he was hearing now, the gourmet was hard at work preparing the next meal for the other guests who had no real idea of the drama playing out amongst them.

Debra had vanished right along with her husband and Dean had assumed she was equally consumed by the extensive preparations for the evening meal. Although it was still hours away, the elaborate floral arrangements, table settings and decoratively folded linens that Debra lavished on their guests would surely devour a healthy portion of the remaining hours until serving time.

There hadn't been much to smile about in the hours since finding Sam twisted and swaddled into a sweaty, steamy mass of sheets and blankets. But on one of Dean's many restless trips back and forth across Sam's room, butterflies churning spasmodically in his gut as he watched over his baby brother and tried to lasso some rational plan out of the cacophony of thoughts in his head, he had noticed movement on the porch below and to the right of the bedroom window. Recalling Sam's fevered agitation that the Devil's Gate demons were gathering for an attack, the stirring and shifting of the shadows just under the edge of the porch roof had set his nerves on edge and Dean's fighting instincts had flickered quickly to life.

He couldn't help the thin smile, though, that had crept across his face as he realized the benign and harmless nature of the "threat". Apparently unable to concentrate on the Martha Stewart-esque tasks of extravagant, unrestrained and festive conviviality, Debra had, at some point, taken to pacing along the porch, her arms crossed across her ample bosom while nervously grinding the thumbnail of her right hand between her teeth. With each pass, she'd stared out across the parking area and down the tree-lined lane, her movements becoming more and more agitated, as though the speed with which she paced would also hasten the arrival of Dr. Jessup.

But, Bobby...God only knew where or why he'd dropped out of sight. And that was the disappearance that was hurting. Bobby had never abandoned the boys, especially when they were in need but, just at the moment Dean's previous experiences had failed to bring Sam's fever down and his confidence that he could handle his brother's care had crumbled into extinction, the man he'd leaned upon as a second father, hell, really the only_ true_ father figure they'd had, had pulled a classic 'John Winchester' and split.

When Bobby had announced that Sam's temp had rocketed another two degrees higher, the rug had been pulled out from under Dean's feet and his stomach was sent spinning. He'd made a mad dash to his and Sam's shared bathroom to wretch over the toilet and when he'd returned, Bobby was gone. He'd just left. No explanation, nada, zilch. The only 'goodbye' the boys had been given was the familiar, yet retreating, sputter of Bobby's senior citizen of a truck as it sped off down the lane.

Dennis showed up a short time later, toting several smallish plastic bags laden with ice cubes, and indicated that Bobby had mentioned something about having Dean apply them to Sam's pulse points. Having admitted that he really had no idea what that meant and only being able to shake his head 'no' when Dean asked if Bobby had said where he was going, Dennis retreated apologetically to the comforting familiarity of his kitchen.

Dean had inwardly chastised himself for not thinking of using ice earlier and immediately placed a bag of ice along each side of his brother's neck. He'd considered the groin as another spot for the two remaining bundles but, finding the area to be just a little to 'intimate' for his liking, he settled on placing a pack in each armpit as well, making sure to slip a thin towel underneath each of the packs to protect Sam's skin from the harsh cold.

While Dean had been happy for Bobby's suggestion of another way to care for Sam, as the minutes stretched on and the hands on his watch continued their circuitous excursion around its face, the familiar sense of abandonment that had punctuated his relationship with his father had crept in. After all, a man could only take so much and, judging by his sudden and apparently permanent absence, Bobby must have reached his tolerance limit of the Winchester's shortcomings. The rough-around-the-edges hunter had done what he could to clean up Dean's failure to care for his baby brother and it looked as though he wasn't about to hang around to witness Dean's ultimate failure - letting Sammy die..._again, _no less.

It had become more difficult to do, but Dean once again pushed the thoughts of abandonment into the background, repeatedly assuring himself that Bobby was no Judas. "He just went out for some air," he declared earnestly to the quiet room, as much to convince himself as to soothe his unaware sibling. "Just needed a little drive-time in order to think. He'll be back, Sammy. Bobby's coming back." _Right?_

_Maybe I should try getting Sam into the bath. I could even dump the ice in there, too. Maybe that would cool him down faster._ _Yeah, right, and how're you gonna get him into the tub, genius? He's too weak to get those Daddy-Longlegs limbs of his to work well enough to get him there...nevermind into the tub. And what if you _could _manage to get him there and he seizes in that monster of an old cast iron tub? He'd hurt himself for sure and then you'd be dealing with injuries on top of everything else._

The small, yet beautifully carved antique reproduction wooden clock on Sam's armoire chimed the hour, interrupting Dean's inner argument with himself, and he compared the time on his wristwatch, as though he thought the ornate instrument might lie to him about how much time had passed since Bobby had taken off. He didn't want them to, but the nagging feelings of being discarded and left behind began to crowd into Dean's thoughts yet again when a low moan from the bed and the restless shuffle of Sam's limbs on the bedsheets drew his immediate attention.

"Shhh," Dean soothed as he picked up the cool cloth from the bedside table and once more dragged its moist comfort across Sam's overheated skin. "I've gotcha, Sammy."

Sam whimpered softly as his arms and legs wandered nomadically across the sheets. More and more harsh winces accompanied the movement as Sam's awareness increased. A spike of selfish guilt flashed through Dean that he'd like nothing more than to have Sam awake, to no longer be alone, even though he'd seen how uncomfortable his younger sibling had seemed when he'd awakened earlier.

Sam's eyelids lifted slowly, blinking heavily open and shut several times as he struggled to awareness. Dean moved to the edge of his seat, waiting anxiously for Sam to gain his bearings. But when Sam's glassy hazel eyes rolled lazily in their sockets and the youngest Winchester said nothing, Dean wasn't sure that his younger sibling understood that he was there.

"Sammy?"

Dean could feel his heart pounding in his chest, speeding and skipping out a beat against his ribs like a physiologic bongo drum. The initial relief he'd felt at seeing his kid brother waking was quickly being shot to hell by Sam's unresponsiveness and the realization that his kid brother's eyes seemingly refused to focus on anything as they listlessly wandered the room.

"Sammy?"

This time, Sam had heard him – at least on some level – because Dean had seen him turn his head towards the sound of his voice. But their gazes briefly met, the older boy's crystal bright and expectant and the younger one's clouded and empty looking, and his baby brother had shown no hint of recognition. It had been like a punch to Dean's chest, a fist so large and powerful that he was sure it had penetrated his sternum and taken a chokehold on his lungs.

"Sammy, it's me, pal. It's Dean." He reached out and trailed the wet cloth along the left side of Sam's ruddy face, not missing the way he flinched and tried to move away from the cooling touch. "I'm sorry, buddy. I know the ice, this cloth, it all seems so cold to you, but I've got to. You're temperature's way too high."

Sam moaned disconsolately as Dean lightly brushed the damp fabric down across his chest and arms. He still didn't respond verbally but his movements intensified markedly with the ministrations and, even without words, Dean understood when Sam struck feebly at him with his left arm.

"Ok, ok," Dean soothed, ceasing his sponging efforts momentarily. "I'll give you a break. But not too long, though, kiddo. I've gotta take care of you, get your temperature down, get you better."

Sam's eyelids blinked slowly and heavily as he tried to drag his thick, dry tongue over his lips. The muscles in his neck worked spasmodically, appearing to make a valiant attempt at swallowing moisture that obviously wasn't there.

"Oh, geez, Sammy," Dean blurted as a rush of guilt washed over him. He had been so consumed with his thoughts and sponging that he hadn't thought to offer his little brother a drink in quite some time. "I should have...**.**" Dean tossed down the washcloth he was still holding and quickly grabbed the water bottle that contained what little remained of his own quickly warming drink. "God, you must be thirsty."

Dean slipped his arm behind his brother's shoulders and lifted slightly, cradling his fevered head between the crook of his elbow and his hunt-hardened bicep. "Here," he offered as he placed the neck of the plastic bottle against Sam's chapped lips. "It's not much, maybe a half-dozen swallows, but it should help."

Dean supported his baby brother's head and watched approvingly as the first small swallow slid slowly down Sam's throat. Dean knew that a second swig was making its descent as Sam's Adam's apple bobbed lightly with the swallowing motion and a third was signaled by the slightly dipping level of water in the bottle. The elder Winchester was going to allow just one more swallow before insisting on a short break when a quizzical look crossed his baby brother's face. Half an instant later, Sam's face paled and his puzzled expression was replaced by a wash of panic.

Sam's eyes were suddenly bright, the dulling effects of the fever gone as the clarity of fear overwhelmingly usurped its place. The boy's eyes were thrown unnaturally wide, the long, dark lashes standing out starkly against his suddenly colorless skin. His left arm flailed wildly, one moment pushing and scrabbling at the bed, the next grabbing blindly at the air around him. His hand smacked Dean in the face several times as the older boy struggled to support Sam as his body arched stiffly, bucking and thrashing as guttural noises squeezed from his throat.

"Sammy? Sammy!"

The motions had a surreal quality about them and Dean wasn't sure what was happening. Sam's movements weren't jerking and uncontrolled as much as they were frenzied and desperate and where he would have expected Sam to be disconnected and unaware, his baby brother appeared cognizant and terrified.

The terror wasn't relegated to just one Winchester. Dean was nearly hysterical as he watched his brother's face transform from ashen to a reddish-purple hue in seconds and his mouth gape oddly. Before Dean could decide if his baby brother was seizing or not, a rush of yellow-green-streaked water burbled violently from Sam's mouth as he coughed and sputtered.

**ooo000ooo **

Sam couldn't help the soft whimper that fell from his lips as he stirred. Pain wracked his body in waves, thrumming through his joints and burning its way along nerve paths that had been charred into brittle sensitivity with days of unrelenting agony. Cohesive thought was still out of his reach but somewhere in his limited awareness he understood that movement exacerbated the pain. Each movement brought on spikes of white-hot misery but his sense of self-preservation had been honed and cultivated so acutely by his father's training that his body instinctually moved, trying in vain to retreat from the source of his pain but ultimately only adding to it. His arms and legs pawed listlessly of their own volition, almost as though some malevolent puppeteer was pulling his strings.

He wanted nothing more than to sink back into the dark and silent abyss of sleep but his growing discomfort was forcing him up through the hazy, gray shroud of semi-consciousness against his will and his heavy eyelids lifted lazily, scraping across the surface of his eyes like dry sandpaper. Daggers pierced through his head as his eyes rolled slowly over his surroundings, adding to the caustic headache that had blared there non-stop for days on end. The painful effort was hardly worth it, though, as his surroundings appeared to him as nothing more than a dimly lit blur of warped shapes and garishly mismatched colors.

A garbled noise to his left startled him and Sam turned his head in the direction of the sound. He was aware enough to know that his body rested on a bed but the 'where' and 'with whom' was buried deep within a fog and completely escaped him. The bed's delicate comfort and the soft floral scent that wafted up from the pillow beneath his head was disconcertingly unfamiliar and, in his gut, he knew that should bother him, that he should care he didn't know where or how he got there, but he couldn't seem to concentrate on anything long enough to get past the fact that he felt like hell.

"S'my, 's me, 'al. 's D'n."

The jumbled sounds made no sense so Sam wasn't expecting it when he felt something touch him. Instinct took over and he flinched away from the sensation.

"'m s'ry, buddy. I know th'ice, 's cloth, it all s'ms s'col' t'you, but I've got to. "

Enough of the noises had made sense this time that Sam was able to pick out a few as words. From the word 'buddy' he knew Dean's must be the voice behind the sounds and that the 'I've got to' meant he was doing something he didn't want to do...and something Sam would be even more inclined to wish he wouldn't do. So when the cold, rough sensation raked down over Sam's chest and arm he assumed that was 'cloth'. Knowing what it was didn't make it any more pleasant and Sam groaned pitifully. Even the careful, gentle pressure behind the movement of the cloth as it skimmed along his skin stimulated hypersensitive nerve endings and touched off a crawling sensation of prickling itches in its wake. The additional genesis of yet more discomfort was almost more than he could take and Sam batted weakly at the intrusion with his left arm.

"...'kay...........a break.........not too long.........kiddo.....take care of you.........temperature.......get you better."

Despite the broken sentences, Sam could hear the concern in Dean's voice and he had to respond, had to reduce his brother's burdens and set his mind at ease. He pried his moistureless tongue from the roof of his mouth and ran it across the cracked, irregular landscape of his arid lips. His throat felt shriveled like the dessicated corpse of some hapless animal left to bake in the desert sun and he couldn't seem to get the muscles to work correctly. When he swallowed, they convulsed painfully as parched tissues scraped cruelly against one another and making it feel as though he was attempting to devour a handful of razorblades.

"Oh, geez, Sammy, I should have...**.**"

His vision was still shaded and foggy but he could hear the soft shuffle of his brother's movements next to him followed by the gentle popping and crinkling of a plastic bottle being picked up.

"God, you must be thirsty."

Sam smelled the mix of leather and gun cleaning fluid and knew it was Dean that slipped his arm behind his shoulders and pulled him forward, carefully supporting his pounding head on his arm.

"Here," he heard Dean rumble in his ear an instant before the neck of the plastic bottle settled against his dry lips. "It's not much, maybe a half-dozen swallows, but it should help."

The first swallow felt like the silky coolness of satin as it slid down his arid throat. A second swallow chased the first and a third was quickly following on its heels when Sam sensed a sudden change occurring, his throat trying to sluice more water down at the exact moment that his stomach had chosen, without warning, to reject and force all of it back out.

The two opposing forces caused the fluid to roil and stir in Sam's throat, going neither up nor down, and panic overtook him as he realized he wasn't able to draw his breath. When his weak attempts at pushing against the bed failed, Sam flailed savagely in front of him for any handhold that he could use to pull himself upright. He bucked and gagged, arching against the choking swirl, as his lungs burned from lack of oxygen. He tried to cry out to alert Dean to his distress but his words were drowned into unintelligible glottal croaks.

"...'mmy? S....my!"

Sam could feel the cold fear radiating from his brother as he cradled him close, uncertain what to do to help him. His hearing washed crazily in and out and his head began to feel light and whirly when a flare of sourness finally sped its way up and out of his throat like some putrid, acidic geyser.

Sam's chest convulsed repeatedly in rough, hacking coughs that rasped air sharply back and forth across a throat that burned with a renewed rawness and jarred the aching muscles of his body into coils of excruciating cramps that wrapped themselves around him with the bone crushing force of a boa constrictor. The pain...the fever...the sickness...the thirst...the quest to save his brother's life...all crashed down on Sam like an unstoppable force, a crushing weight that he could no longer support, and Sam broke.

**ooo000ooo**

Dean held his baby brother close and still wasn't entirely sure when the shudders that pulsed through his body had morphed from barking, strangled coughs to the quaking tremors of barefaced, disconsolate sobbing, but the sound nearly broke his heart.

It wasn't like Dean had never seen Sam cry before. In their lives, there was plenty to cry over – the hurt of finding Dad's journal and realizing that everything he knew about his family...himself...was a lie, the guilt and pain of losing Jess, the shock of their father's sudden death, the heartbreak of knowing there was nothing he could do for Madison except put a bullet in her brain – but this was different. These sobs, they were sobs that were filled with the rawness of physical suffering; the sobs of a man shattered into the barest fragments of himself by pain and illness.

"I'm here, Sam. I'm here," Dean repeated over and over as he pulled his little brother closer. He could feel Sam's muscles cramping unnaturally beneath his hands and heard his cries intensify. "It'll get better. It will. You'll see."

Dean pushed a clump of untamed chestnut hair from Sam's face and noticed that, although Sam was sobbing harder than he'd ever seen him, not even a single tear had been shed to run down his cheeks. Something about that set off alarm bells in Dean's head and that's when it hit him that, as fiery hot as Sam was, he wasn't sweating any longer.

"OhGodOhGodOhGod........**.**" Dean pulled Sam even closer, his eyes squeezing shut against the sudden burning that was welling up behind them. "You can't do this, Sam..........You can't...............Oh, God. Bobby, where the hell _are _you?"

"You two doin' ok?" Bobby glanced questioningly at the two boys huddled on the bed as he walked into the room and tossed down his pack in the corner.

"Bobby..."

The strain in Dean's voice was enough to stand the hairs on the back of Bobby's neck at attention.

"Dean?"

The older Winchester turned his head to face Bobby but didn't relinquish his hold on his younger brother.

"Where the _hell _have you been?"

Bobby glanced quickly at Sam, the muscle cramps he was continuing to experience drawing Bobby's eye.

"Seein' as it looked like we'll be here a while and we're not sure what threats we're dealin' with, I figured it was smart to do some recon. And while I was at it, I went down to the crossroads and a few herbs here and a coupla incantations there...viola...our own personal 'demon doorbell'. Doesn't work so well with upper level nasties, but we'll know it if some of Satan's _little_ helpers are comin' to dinner."

Sam had slipped into an exhausted unresponsiveness in his brother's arms but moaned heavily as the muscles in his right leg knotted tightly again. Bobby sat down on the edge of Sam's bed, positioning himself so that he could face Dean. His eyes flashed first over Sam then to Dean, narrowing at the furrow of lines carved into the older boy's forehead and the way he clutched at his brother.

"Somethin' happen while I was gone?"

Dean looked up suddenly, tears brimming at the edges of his eyes.

"I tried giving him some water. It came back up before it even really got down. He hasn't been able to hold down any fluids to speak of since yesterday. He's burning up but he's not sweating any more and he cried, Bobby. He bawled harder than I've ever seen him bawl...and there weren't any tears. This is more than we can handle, Bobby. Sammy's dehydrating and needs a real doctor...now."

"Guess it's a good thing I'm here, then, huh?"

Dean turned to find the unfamiliar voice attached to a short, slightly-built and rather weathered appearing elderly man. He wore a simple, plaid button-down shirt with the top button undone. A pair of slightly faded jeans adorned his bowed legs and fell over a pair of well-worn cowboy boots.

For his apparent age, he still had a shockingly full head of silvery hair, a light application of pomade having been used to comb his locks back into a well-contained pompadour that had fit perfectly underneath the stained and dusty cowboy hat he now clutched in his hand. Standing there, he looked more like one of the area's ranch hands than the doctor that treated them.

He moved into the room, crossing to the bureau and placing his bag on the top. His skin had been creased and toughened into tanned leather, both by time and the elements, but his ice blue eyes shone with a bright tenderness from behind the inordinately thick lenses of his horn-rimmed glasses. Fingers that were warped and gnarled by arthritis still moved competently as they pulled the bag open and he sorted through the supplies inside.

Dr. Jessup had already met the older of the rag-tag trio as the man had slipped from the cab of an aging truck and he, himself, had climbed from his WWII-era Jeep. What the Jeep lacked in comfort and accommodations it more than made up for in tough-as-nails transportation. It wasn't pretty, but it reliably got him from one outlying clinic to another across some of the roughest and most primitive roads the region had to offer.

As he disentangled his stethoscope from it's place among the road-jostled contents of his bag, he could feel the eyes of the older of the two young men boring into him, watching his every move, and he felt compelled to explain his delay in arriving.

"I would have gotten here a bit sooner but, on my way back, I'd stopped out to check on Jessie Red Bird's baby. Little tyke must have been in a rush to get here, came nearly a month too soon." Dr. Jessup stopped what he was doing and straightened up. "Huh," he breathed out, a devilish glint lighting his eyes. "Hadn't though about it until now but I guess that means that little guy was an _early _Bird."

The elderly man chuckled softly at his own lame joke and walked to the adjoining bathroom where he proceeded to wash and soap his arms to the elbow. He returned to the room, drying his arms and hands on one of the inn's brightly colored hand towels.

"While I was there, Jessie's cow was havin' a tough go...stuck calf...so it took me a bit'a extra time to get my arm in there, get 'im pushed back and turned, and get 'im delivered, but it ended well. Nice strong bull calf." Doc tossed the towel he'd been drying with onto the nearby bureau. "Standin' and nursin' when I left."

"No. Absolutely no way," Dean barked angrily as he juggled the weight of Sam's limp frame in his arms. "No way am I letting some hundred-and-ten year old, geriatric veterinarian take care of Sammy. Not gonna happen."

"Dean..."

"No, Bobby! If I have to pack him into the Impala and drive all night until I can find someone else, then that's what I'll do. He's _not _gonna touch him, and that's final!"

"First of all," Dr. Jessup began somewhat indignantly, "I'm not 110, I'm 101. Secondly, I am not a veterinarian. I'm a physician licensed by the state of Wyoming and, out here, we don't make no distinctions between human and animal. For most, livin' out here means dependin' on the other. If Jessie's cow had died it would have meant no milk for his children, no meat and no money for a dead calf so, yeah, I help where I can. If all that makes you want to turn me away, can't do nothin' 'bout that and I'll leave. But," he added, gesturing at Sam, "if you'll let me, I'd sooner look to seein' what I can do to help your brother."

Dean looked suspiciously at the down-to-earth physician.

"I never said he was my brother."

"Don't have to," Dr. Jessup asserted. "Don't do this for seventy-some years and not be able to see what's plain in front of your nose. I'm a big brother, too, you know. So whadda you say?"

Dean worried his bottom lip with his teeth. He glanced undecidedly between the centenarian and Bobby. He looked down at his brother's face, tenderly sweeping his fingers soothingly through Sam's hair when another round of muscle cramps evoked more whimpers of discomfort.

"Yeah, ok," Dean whispered quietly as he gently laid Sam back, rose from the bed and stepped back slightly to allow the doctor some room to examine him. "But don't think that I'm not watching everything that you do."

Dr. Jessup chuckled lightly. "Expected nothin' less, my boy. Nothin' less."

"Come on, Dean," Bobby said as he pulled slightly at Dean's arm. "Brenda figured we wouldn't be coming down for supper so she sent up some sandwiches and chips on some TV trays." He pointed at the chairs lined up against the far wall. "We can eat over there and let the good doctor do his work."

Jessup nodded approvingly at Bobby's intervention. "Protective as a pregnant pitbull, ain't he?"

"Dean?" Bobby laughed good-naturedly. "With Sam, you don't know the half of it."

Dr. Jessup turned to his patient and Bobby half guided, half pushed Dean to his chair, forcing him down and plopping a fully loaded TV tray table in front of him before he could stand again.

"Eat."

"Don't wanna eat," Dean growled petulantly as he eyed the elderly man hovering over his brother, his stethoscope pressed to Sam's chest.

"Well, you're gonna eat." The junk man's words were snarled in classic John Winchester fashion. "Debra and Dennis have been good to us...and especially to Sam," Bobby added with a nod in the boy's direction as he crammed a few barbecue-flavored chips into his mouth. "We're not gonna throw their hospitality up in their faces. And, anyway, you haven't had a thing to eat since breakfast."

Dean threw his friend a contentious look but picked up the sandwich and took a bite without another word. He continued to scrutinize the geriatric physician's movements and grumbled under his breath.

Bobby's eyebrow twitched a scornful warning.

"You wanna share that with the class, boy?"

Dean tossed his sandwich down in a heap on his plate.

"Oh, come on, Bobby. Look at him! He's old enough to have treated Colt, himself! Does he even _know _anything about modern medicine?

"At this point, he's all we've got, and that's a helluva sight better than nothin' at all so, for Sam's sake," the older man snapped threateningly, his eyes intently holding Dean's gaze to drive his point home, "you damn well better sit down and shut up until you can learn how to play well with others. Got it?!"

Dean looked away sheepishly. He looked back at his lifelong friend and catching his still sharp and disapproving gaze, turned his own eyes shamefully away again. "Yes, sir," he said quietly as he once again picked at his meal.

"Dean," Bobby murmured apologetically.

Dean didn't raise his head or look up. "No, you're right," he mumbled. "I'm sorry."

"Look, I didn't mean to...**. **It's just...with Sam...**.**"

"I know, Bobby," Dean said barely looking out from under his fringe of spiky hair. "You're right, though. And I, uh...I'm just glad you're here. Glad you came back."

"Glad that I came back? Why wouldn't I c-...**.**" Suddenly understanding what Dean meant, Bobby drew in a sharp breath. Abandonment had played a large role in Dean's life, even causing him to seek out his wayward brother at Stanford when their father had gone missing. And, as hard as the boy tried to maintain a facade of hardened indifference, the fear of being alone constantly bubbled under the surface, waiting, watching for the tiniest crack through which it could flow.

"I'm not sure whether I should hug you or slug you," Bobby began truthfully, yet affectionately. "Don't you know by now that I'd never walk out on the two'a you? Particularly now, with Sam bein' sick and an army of demons gunnin' for you two chuckleheads while you're sitting here in a house full of innocents with you're asses hanging out. For better or worse, Winchester, you and Sam and me...we're a team."

Dean smiled shyly but the relief at hearing Bobby's words was written all over his face.

"Yeah, we are."

Dr. Jessup cleared his throat loudly and approached the two hunters. "I'm sure I'm not tellin' you nothin' you don't already suspect, but I've only given Sam a cursory exam and it's obvious we shouldn't even be tryin' to treat him here. He needs to be in a hospital. There's one about an hour away...in Riverton. I have a military issue folding canvas stretcher I use with my Jeep if someone gets injured in the backcountry. If one of you will drive, I can attend to Sam."

"I'll drive, Dean. You and the doc can take watch."

Bobby hadn't said it in so many words, but Dean knew that the older hunter was not only referring to watching out for Sam, but also for any supernatural threats that might want to take advantage of their vulnerability on the open road.

"Thanks, Bobby."

"No problem, kid."

"Alright then," Dr. Jessup stated enthusiastically. "While you guys toss my stuff back in my pack and grab whatever you need, I'll go get the stretcher out of the Jeep."

**ooo000ooo**

"I thought you were bringing the litter back with you?" Dean couldn't understand why Dr. Jessup was standing in the room's open doorway, empty-handed. They'd all agreed to their courses of action and he was sure Dr. Jessup had said he'd be bringing the canvas apparatus to the room. Maybe, Dean reasoned, it was just too big a job for the old geezer's creaking joints. "I can give you a hand carrying it up the steps if you need it."

A combination of confusion, indignation and apprehension colored the facial expression of the venerable physician as he tried to decide just what to say.

"Uh...no...no that's not the problem."

Bobby stopped what he was doing and scrutinized the man. "Soooo...what _is _the problem?"

"The, uh, tires. They're slashed...all of 'em...on all of the vehicles."

"What?!" Bobby scrubbed a hand across his face. In typical fashion, things were quickly going down the proverbial crapper.

"I don't care if I've got to run my baby on her rims, I'm getting Sammy out of here and to a hospital."

"Wouldn't get far," Jessup asserted. "Not with all the oil drained out on the ground, too."

"Son of a bitch!" Dean stomped angrily back and forth across the room, his hand raking savagely through his hair as he tried to think of something else. "The phone. We'll call for an ambulance or a ride. What about your office nurse?"

Bobby quickly walked over to the period reproduction candlestick-style telephone that rested on the nightstand next to Sam's bed. He lifted the handset and placed it to his ear, his finger bouncing up and down repeatedly on the switchhook arm. "Nothing. Line's dead. And we already know there's no cell reception out here."

"Call me paranoid, gentlemen," Dr. Jessup advanced cautiously, "but I'm starting to think somebody doesn't want us leaving here."

* * *

**To be continued...**

* * *

A/N: "There's a Doctor" is a track from The Who's classic rock opera 'Tommy'. The studio album, released in May of 1969, tells the story of Tommy, a "deaf, dumb and blind" boy. The album eventually spawned a 1975 musical film of the same name starring, among others, such notables as Roger Daltry, Keith Moon, Pete Townshend, John Entwhistle, Eric Clapton, Tina Turner, Elton John, Ann-Margaret and even a very young Jack Nicholson.

Dr. Jessup is modeled after Dr. Leila Denmark, a real life Atlanta pediatrician who is credited as a co-developer of the pertussis (whooping cough) vaccine in the 1920's and 1930's and who actively practiced medicine until retiring in May, 2001...at the age of 103. At the age of 111, she currently resides in Athens, Georgia with her daughter and holds the distinction of being the oldest living person validated to have be born in 1898.


	15. It Don't Come Easy

**Disclaimer: **Kripke owns them, I only covet them. OC's are mine and any names and/or personality similarities to persons living or dead are purely accidental.

**A/N: **I apologize for the HUGE delay in posting but I've been pulling extra shifts to cover the patient surge we've seen from the swine flu. We're seeing twice as many people each 24-hour period than we normally do and the extra hours have put the writing on the back burner for a bit.

Also, this site has been giving me ALL sorts of grief with the uploading, editing and construction of this chapter. I've finally managed to get the chapter uploaded and the general content edited but I STILL can't get the song lyrics, the title or the paragraph breaks to center align like I usually have them. I'm at my wit's end on how to "fix" it and, since it doesn't affect the chapter story as a whole, I'm posting AS IS. Sorry, guys!

* * *

_(It don't come easy, you know it don't come easy)  
(It don't come easy, you know it don't come easy)_

_Got to pay your dues if you wanna sing the blues and you know it don't come easy.  
You don't have to shout or leap about, you can even play them easy.  
Forget about the past and all your sorrow.  
The future won't last, it will soon be your tomorrow._

_I don't ask for much, I only want trust and you know it don't come easy.  
And this love of mine keeps growing all the time and you know it just ain't easy.  
Open up your heart, let's come together.  
Use a little love and we will make it work out better._

_Got to pay your dues if you wanna sing the blues and you know it don't come easy.  
You don't have to shout or leap about, you can even play them easy.  
Please, remember peace is how we make it.  
Here within your reach, if your big enough to take it._

_I don't ask for much, I only want trust and you know it don't come easy.  
And this love of mine keeps growing all the time and you know it don't come easy._

"It Don't Come Easy" - Ringo Starr

* * *

****

From the previous chapter:

"_The, uh, tires. They're slashed...all of 'em...on all of the vehicles."_

"_What?!" Bobby scrubbed a hand across his face. In typical fashion, things were quickly going down the proverbial crapper._

"_I don't care if I've got to run my baby on her rims, I'm getting Sammy out of here and to a hospital."_

"_Wouldn't get far," Jessup asserted. "Not with all the oil drained out on the ground, too."_

"_Son of a bitch!" Dean stomped angrily back and forth across the room, his hand raking savagely through his hair as he tried to think of something else. "The phone. We'll call for an ambulance or a ride. What about your office nurse?"_

_Bobby quickly walked over to the period reproduction candlestick-style telephone that rested on the nightstand next to Sam's bed. He lifted the handset and placed it to his ear, his finger bouncing up and down repeatedly on the switchhook arm. "Nothing. Line's dead. And we already know there's no cell reception out here."_

"_Call me paranoid, gentlemen," Dr. Jessup advanced cautiously, "but I'm starting to think somebody doesn't want us leaving here."_

* * *

**Atrox**

**Chapter 14: It Don't Come Easy**

"The doc's right, Bobby."

Gravel crunched under Dean's boots as he walked towards where Bobby had his head buried under the hood of a 2006 Volkswagen Jetta. Stopping just short of the German-engineered compact car, Dean futilely tried to wipe his grease stained hands off on a previously used and equally filthy shop towel he'd dug from deep inside the Impala's car care kit. "I checked 'em and someone definitely made sure they disabled our vehicles."

Dean's hazel green eyes flashed menacingly. It was bad enough that someone had messed with his car, but it was a whole other thing to have _violated_ her. "And they were serious about it, too," he continued on. "Figured, with the spare quarts of oil I keep in the trunk, we could still get Sammy outta here on the Impala's rims. But, whoever or _whatever _did this even went so far as to further defile my baby by stripping her of her distributor rotor. Your truck and the doc's Jeep, too."

Bobby straightened from the VW he'd been investigating, pulled the metal rod supporting the open hood from it's slot and slammed the metal cover shut a little harder than was necessary before turning around and half-leaning, half-sitting on the vehicle. He crossed his arms angrily in front of him and squinted against the late day sun as the duo looked out over the cars that dotted the inn's small parking area.

"Yeah, I've checked all the newer vehicles and every last one of 'em's had the starter solenoid ripped out."

Dean leaned dolefully against the VW next to his friend, mirroring his position. "Great. So we can't just have a _demon_ tailing us. No, we have to have the 'Mr. Goodwrench' of demons on our asses," Dean fumed humorlessly. He raked his hand irritatedly through his hair before allowing it to slap dejectedly against his thigh. "Even if we could somehow _miraculously_ plug one of the leaks and add new oil...**.**" He let his thoughts hang in mid-air, too frustrated to give them voice. Couldn't _anything _ever go right?

Bobby's eyes roamed slowly over the landscape, studying every bush, rock, blade of grass, tree, clump of dirt and shadow. It was now painfully obvious that there was a real threat out there somewhere and, by damned, he hated having to sit around just waiting for the supernatural shoe to fall. "Without the distributor rotors or the starter selonoids," Bobby started quietly before finally breaking his fruitless visual search and turning his head to lock eyes with Dean. "...we ain't gettin' none of 'em to crank over anyway."

Dean saw the worry in his friend's eyes just as surely as he felt it coursing through his own body. Without their wheels they were immobile, a tiny band of trapped hunters, and they still had absolutely no idea if they were up against _one _demon or one _hundred. _But that wasn't all. Apparently, fate couldn't be satisfied at getting its jollies by simply kicking them around a little. No, it had to go for the whole enchilada; the bone-crushing, brain-rattling right cross, the KO that timed the loss of their way out precisely _when Sam was sick_. So ill, in fact, that the doctor hadn't hesitated a second in recommending that they seek hospital care for him.

"Hate to say this, Dean...," Bobby sighed, "...but, even two experienced, ol' 'junker jockeys' like us can't rig up somethin' that's gonna get one of these buckets runnin' now. Our wings are clipped, buddy."

"Yeah."

Dean sighed quietly, his eyes straying to Sam's bedroom window. He hadn't really wanted to leave his brother's side but Bobby had made a lot of sense when he'd said that if anyone had a chance of getting one of the vehicles fixed enough to get Sam to Riverton it was the two of them and he'd dutifully followed his friend down the steps, out the inn's front door and into the small parking lot. Now that they'd determined that their only hope of transporting their youngest member to appropriate medical care was gone, Dean wanted nothing more than to be back at his brother's bedside. He couldn't do much, that much was obvious by Sam's deteriorating condition, but at least he was _with _him.

"I swear to God, if Sammy...**.**" Dean stopped, huffing frustratedly as his gaze wandered from his brother's window and out over the mountain landscape. The thought that Sam's health could continue to worsen because some demon seemed to be carrying a grudge was just too painful and absurd to say out loud. "I find this thing?" Dean growled, his green eyes cold and hard as forged steel. "It's gonna wish it had never clawed its way outta Hell."

Bobby nodded silently, knowing he didn't need to voice his agreement for Dean to understand that he was behind him one thousand percent. He squinted once more out over the horizon but nothing unusual stirred. In his peripheral vision, he could see Dean looking back at the house again. The younger hunter didn't say anything but Bobby certainly didn't need any verbal proclamations to know that Dean was worrying himself over being away from Sam.

"Come on, Dean." Bobby swatted his large palm lightly on the younger hunter's thigh. "Let's get you back with that brother of yours. Now that Doc Jessup's had the time to give him a more thorough look-see, maybe he'll have some better news for us."

**ooo000ooo**

"Frankly, I've got to say I'm a bit confused." Dr. Jessup scratched the back of his head as he sat on the edge of the chair nearest the bed and looked over his young patient. The boy's physical exam just wasn't matching up to the brief history he'd been given by the older brother and uncle just before they'd sprinted down the steps and out the inn's front door to see the damaged vehicles for themselves.

Dean was trying really hard to get beyond the man's advanced age and place his trust in the care that he could provide. He really was. But his frustration at not being able to engineer some sort of repair on any of the crippled vehicles, even one _just_ half-assed enough to get Sam to town where they could procure better transport, had pushed his normally well-hidden feelings into overdrive. Anger and fear pulsated within him, undulating, heaving, pounding until a nearly smothering blanket of emotion made the room feel as though the air was too scarce to breathe properly.

He was angry at Sam for hiding just how sick he was becoming. He was angry at the demons who seemingly refused to give his kid brother a break. He was angry that they couldn't get Sam the help he really needed and that the boy had been forced to settle for some small-town doc with no other supplies than those he carried in his equally time-worn Jeep and bag. But, mostly, he was angry at himself for not being able to do a damn thing about any of it. In the end, and despite Bobby's previously clear warnings, the competing emotions all collided headlong with a nearly pathologic fear that the physician's memory was much too poor and his knowledge much too antiquated to be of any help to his baby brother.

"Alzheimer's much?," Dean mumbled under his breath.

The comment had been grumbled so quietly that Bobby didn't think the aging doctor had heard it. It apparently hadn't registered with Dennis and Debra, either, as they hovered silently nearby, clearly hoping for good news, but still fretfully glancing at their ill young guest. The fact that Dean's remark had gone unheeded by the others was something that Bobby was thankful for. But that didn't mean that _he_ was about to let the young hunter's continued lack of control to slide by completely unnoticed...or unpunished. Without changing his expression or looking away from the elderly caregiver, Bobby stomped the heel of his heavy boot onto the bridge of Dean's foot, silencing the young hunter and distinctly broadcasting his displeasure.

If the centenarian medic had noted Bobby's physical admonition of Dean he hadn't indicated it, instead keeping his attention trained on his patient. "I gave him as thorough an exam as I could with the very basic equipment I've got with me and, well, let me just say there's a few things that don't make sense."

"What the hell is _that _supposed to mean?" Dean could feel his emotions getting the better of him again. Was the doctor accusing them of not being up front with him or did his exam find Sam was in even more danger than they'd previously thought? "Just what isn't adding up?"

"Anything, actually." Dr. Jessup clasped his arthritic fingers around Sam's wrist again. The accelerated thrum of the young man's pulse under his fingers and the heat that poured from his skin were particularly concerning. "From what you've said, I know that you're concerned about infection. But I just can't put Sam's current state and that wound in the same ballpark."

Dean shuffled his position and Bobby could practically feel another confrontation brewing so he shot him another warning looking before turning and addressing Dr. Jessup. "I'm not sure I understand, Doc."

"Come see for yourselves." Dr. Jessup rose from his chair and gestured toward the right side of Sam's bed. Bobby and Dean stepped alongside the bed and Debra and Dennis shuffled imperceptibly closer along the side where the physician stood. "I need to start figurin' out how we're gonna manage to treat him here so I'm gonna make this as short and to the point as I can. I looked at that arm while the two'a you were out checkin' the vehicles."

The aging physician bent across Sam's supine form and pulled back several large gauze pads he'd placed protectively over top of the sutured wound on Sam's arm. A small gasp fell from Debra's mouth at the sight of the yawning wound. "Oh, dear Lord."

The portly woman's hands flashed up to cover her mouth in an expression of shock as Dennis' burly arm curled supportively around her shoulders and tears glistened at the corners of her eyes. Although she'd been in the room when the men had tended to Sam's arm a few hours before, this was the first time she'd been close enough to see the wound for herself.

"It'll be okay, hon," Dennis whispered quietly. "Doc's here now. He'll know what to do."

The skin edges over most of the injured tissues were reddened and slightly puffy. In contrast, the area around several of the large stitches was decidedly swollen and angry looking with small tendrils of red starting to curl up the arm away from the wound.

"Although it ain't purty, I don't think that wound 'ould be enough on it's own to account for this boy's condition. He's been out, so I haven't checked his temp all official-like, but just one touch can tell ya he's hotter than a snake's ass in a wagon rut."

Placing the gauzes gently back over the wound, Dr. Jessup straightened slightly. "And this," Jessup continued as he pinched a small wad of skin on the back of Sam's left forearm between his thumb and index finger. When he released it, the flesh continued to stand in a wrinkled, tent-like formation as though invisible fingers still had it snared within their grasp.

"He's had that damned fever," Bobby asserted as he noted that Sam's skin hadn't yet snapped back into place like it ought to. "And, like we said, he had a headache and threw up the day before yesterday...when we were on the road. Not to mention, he hasn't been able to keep much, if anything, down all day today."

"When he was a kid, Sammy used to get just about every stomach bug that came around," Dean recalled. "Remember that time we were staying with you, Bobby? I think Sammy was three, maybe four, at the time and he puked non-stop for nearly two days 'til you finally convinced Dad he ought to take him to the ER."

"Yeah, I remember." The junk man grinned a wan, lopsided smile at the memory. The times the young Winchester's had stayed with him had been some of the happiest...and some of the most terrifying...times he could remember. He'd been very worried about the youngest Winchester during that visit, concerned that he was seriously ill, and had played hell getting their father to do the right thing. "Your Daddy was madder 'n a hornet at me 'til the ER doc told us the little stringbean was a bit dry and they wouldn't let John take 'im home 'til they gave him some IV fluids."

"Sam ain't 'just a bit dry'," Jessup confirmed gravely. "And this isn't somethin' caused by one day of vomiting...or even two. If I had to guess, I'd say it's been five days, maybe a week, since he's kept down sufficient fluids. This boy's about as dehydrated as they come...dangerously so."

"A week?" Dean's voice was little more than a whisper, his face a picture of shocked surprise. "He's hidden this right under our noses practically since we caught up with him in Nevada!"

"There's got to be a reason for the fever and dehydration, though, right?," Dennis postulated quietly. "I mean, what about infection?"

"I don't mean to sound callous, folks, but we really don't have the luxury to debate this right now." Dr. Jessup reached for the large canvas bag that rested on the floor next to his chair and began rummaging quickly through its contents. "There _is _a reason...and maybe the arm's a big culprit, maybe it's not. That's something we'll have to look into...but unless we get his fever down and get him hydrated and we do it soon, we're not going to _have _to worry what else might be going on."

**ooo000ooo**

"Thanks." Dean solemnly accepted the damp sheet from the young, athletic man beside him.

Cameron Gilchrist was the same age as Sam but, unlike the youngest Winchester, he had been an obnoxious bore since they'd first met him shortly after arriving at Back in Thyme Bed & Breakfast. For everything that Dean hated about camping and the outdoors, it held a fascinated passion for Cameron. Extreme hiking, rock climbing, mountain biking, kayaking, big game hunting, running; it didn't matter. If it was done out of doors and deep in the heart of Nature, the ruggedly muscled Cameron loved it...and boasted endlessly about it _and_ the exotic locales he'd explored while doing it.

His braggadocios personality turned Dean off anyway, but Gilchrist had only augmented Dean's dislike of him when he'd spent the previous evening's meal doing his best to insult Sam during a discussion between the male guests about the manufacturing specifications and merits of various firearms. Sam's superior knowledge had been proven accurate when Dennis quickly checked the facts on the Internet to quell the disagreement before it escalated further, but Cameron's arrogant attempt at humiliating his baby brother had been enough to make Dean despise the self-righteous outdoorsman all the more.

Dr. Jessup had watched over Sam for the short time that Dean, Dennis and Bobby had spent going from guest to guest quietly trying to gather useful supplies. The other guests were already wondering and worrying over the implications behind the vandalization of their vehicles and the inn's phone lines, so the trio had been careful not to reveal any more details of the dire situation they faced than was absolutely necessary. After all, they needed supplies, not intrusive rubberneckers that got in the way or, worse yet, a house full of _completely_ freaked out guests that would require more care and attention than they could spare from Sam.

They'd taken rooms at random and, by chance, the door that Dean had had the misfortune to knock upon had been Cameron's.

"_Something I can do for you, Dean?" Although the question, itself, was neutral, Cameron's rather acidic tone made it clear that Dean's presence at his door was less than welcomed. _

_As much as Dean wanted to reach out and give the jerk a huge bite of knuckle sandwich, he ignored the guy's attitude and restrained himself for his brother's sake. "Yeah. Uh...A friend of ours just got here and he, uh...he's a runner and is thinking of taking up extreme trail marathoning. I thought, maybe, since you were so good at extreme sports..." Dean cringed inwardly at fluffing up the idiot's already enormous ego but it was an ends to a means. "...maybe we could borrow some of your gear for him to check out."_

"_Borrow?" The word tumbled out on a huffed laugh that grated on Dean's nerves. "I don't think so. Not only is my gear expensive, top-of-the-line stuff, but it's highly specialized and I don't need a pack of amateurs screwing it up." Cameron stressed the word 'amateurs' with a particularly derisive tone. _

"_I know it would really make his day to check out the stuff, particularly the Platypus you mentioned last night." Dean hated the fact that his desperation to help Sam had put a nearly begging edge to his voice._

"_Unh uh." Cameron emphatically shook his head. "My gear doesn't go anywhere I don't go."_

_The last thing Dean needed, or Sam for that matter, was one more civilian getting involved - period. The reasons for not including one, even one with desperately needed equipment, was only magnified when that civilian was some dick like Cameron. Add in an unknown and possibly supernatural threat and those reasons became only that much more numerous. Disaster, in some form or other, was sure to follow._

Screw it, _Dean thought, _when hasn't the definition of 'disaster' included the name Winchester?

"_Fine," Dean stated bitterly. "Can we have the gear if you come with it?"_

_Cameron leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms in front of his chest ,and considered the rag-tag man before him. He didn't really like him, or his know-it-all younger brother, either. After all, they'd made him look like a fool the night before in front of everyone in the house. _

_Then again, this was his chance to show the pair up and put them in their places since they'd have to admit he knew more about extreme sports than they did._

"_Sure," Cameron finally said, savoring the anticipation of the moment he was going to embarrass the brother's in front of their friend. Already enjoying the opportunity to throw around some jargon he added, "Give me a sec. I'll grab the Platy, my heart rate monitor, calorie counter, GPS and digital compass/altimeter combo." _

"Ok, I've got this sheet." Cameron's voice pulled Dean out of his thoughts and he realized the athlete had already removed the warm, muggy sheet that covered his brother's form and was waiting for him to make the next move. He quickly unfurled the damp sheet Gilchrist had handed him a minute or so earlier and laid it gently over his brother, arranging it so that the cool, soggy surface hugged closely to Sam's steamy hot skin. When Dean looked up, Cameron was already training the air flow from two oscillating fans to blow up and down along the length of the youngest Winchester as he reclined on the bed.

Dr. Jessup had started them on this technique in favor of adding more ice packs. As Dean understood it, the country doctor was fearful that adding more ice would cause Sam's vessels to constrict, shunting more heat to his core and actually driving his temperature _up. _Until Dennis and Bobby came back with whatever supplies they had managed to scrounge, there wasn't much more Dean could do than he'd already been doing – sitting, watching and worrying.

"_What the hell? You told me...I highly doubt Gramps, over there..." Cameron gestured angrily in Dr. Jessup's direction as he realized Dean had conned him. "...is gonna be running any extreme marathons any time soon!" _

_The physically fit twenty-something turned and stalked towards the still open bedroom door. "I'm out of here!"_

_Before Cameron could get to the door, Dean had kicked it shut and stood like a rock wall in front of it. "Fine by me...but the Platypus stays."_

"_The only way that's gonna happen is if you pry it from my cold, dead hands."_

"_Don't tempt me, Hammerhead." Dean stared hard at Cameron like a predator staring down its prey, daring the other man to make a move._

"_Gentlemen! Gentlemen, please," Dr. Jessup placated as he rose from his place at Sam's bedside. The testosterone fueled stand-off before him appeared ready to erupt into a physical battle at any moment. "I already have enough patients to deal with. I certainly don't need more."_

_Cameron shuffled slightly, keeping himself angled in such a way that he didn't turn his back on Dean but could still see the elderly man now addressing them. As the man approached, Gilchrist's attention was drawn to the stethoscope around the senior citizen's neck and then to a form lying on the bed behind him. He hadn't noticed the person before because the way the old man had been sitting had completely blocked them from view._

_He looked a little closer and thought he recognized Dean's little brother. Then again, he couldn't be sure. Thinking back to the previous night, Sam might have been a little pale looking but this person appeared positively debilitated. _

"_Is...is that your brother? He's ok, isn't he? 'Cause he doesn't look too good."_

"_He'll be fine. Doc's got everything under control so you can just leave the Platypus and go quietly."_

_Cameron huffed out a sardonic laugh, gripped his equipment that much tighter and moved a step closer to the door. Dean bristled and adopted an even more defensive stance than previously._

"_Look, Mr...**.**" The doctor stumbled to a stop when he realized he didn't know the name that belonged to this new face._

"_Gilchrist. Cameron Wendell Gilchrist, the third. Maybe you're familiar with my family's business, GEI? Gilchrist EnviroIndustries? We're the nation's top geothermal systems technology firm. We have some projects going not far from this area."_

_The elderly man seemed neither impressed nor turned off by Cameron's information, instead glancing back over his shoulder as Sam moaned quietly. "Ok, Mr. Gilchrist, I'm going to be blunt with you 'cause, frankly, I ain't got time to waste gettin' between too surly bulls who are hell bent to lock horns. I don't know what burr has gotten under y'all's saddle pads with each other, and I don't care, 'cause that man...," Jessup swung his arm behind himself and pointed in Sam's direction without ever losing his intense eye contact with Cameron. "...that man is seriously ill and it's my job to do everything I can to care for him. If that means sedating you – the **both **of you – in order that I can get the equipment I need to keep him alive, then that's **precisely **what I'm going to do!"_

_Cameron stared dumbfounded at the grizzled man in front of him. Had a man of such advanced age and significantly shorter stature and bulk actually physically threatened him?_

"_For God's sake, Cameron...please." Dean no longer cared how weak or pathetic he sounded. Jessup had indicated that gaining the use of Cameron's Platypus might be the single most important step in preventing any further decline in Sam's health and he was prepared to do anything...even grovel pathetically at Cameron's feet...if there was a chance of getting what was needed._

"_So, Mr. Gilchrist, what's it gonna be?" Dr. Jessup's normally kind, blue eyes were trained unwaveringly, icy cold and hard, on Cameron's uncertain gaze. "Can you really walk out that door and throw away a life in the process?"_

**ooo000ooo**

"Ok, everybody, let's take stock of what we've got here." Dr. Jessup's eyes flashed over the odd hodge-podge of items spread across the small desk that had been moved in from another guest room to serve as a primitive center of operations.

Dean once again pulled himself from his wandering thoughts, smoothed the sweat-soaked hair from Sam's forehead with a final swipe of his wet washcloth and joined the small band of people assembling around the physician. Bobby and Dennis had just returned from their scavenger hunt of the inn and grounds and had added their haul of odds and ends to the pile in front of the aging medic.

"How's he doin'?" The task of cold-sheeting Sam had distracted Cameron and Dean enough for an uneasy truce to take hold and, since there was nothing more that he could do for Sam at that point than what the two young men were already accomplishing, Jessup had stayed out of their way.

"In and out, Doc." Dean reached up and hooked a meaty hand behind his neck, massaging at the knot of muscles that had taken up permanent residence there. "Seems to come around a bit every few times Cam and I swap sheets."

"He talkin' to ya?"

"Not so much to me as _at _me," Dean admitted dejectedly.

The elderly medical practitioner nodded his head knowingly. "Still not real oriented, huh?" Dean shook his head solemnly. "We'll check his temp again when we're done here. See where we stand after the sheetin' that you and Cameron are doin'."

Dr. Jessup pushed a few items around on the desk, organizing them into groupings that made sense only to him. One grouping covered the left side of the desk and a much larger and more confounding-looking one covered the right side.

"These things here could be helpful, but not initially." The doctor indicated the tiny pile at the left side of the desk that contained a mostly-consumed bottle of Tylenol tablets, a small amber bottle of antibiotic pills and a small wound care kit. "Until Sam's more responsive and I know that he can protect his airway, we can't risk giving him anything orally. He aspirates anything into his lungs and we're in even bigger trouble than we already are."

The doctor turned his attention to the larger group of supplies on the desk's right side. He tapped an arthritic finger in front of a pile of what looked like seven foil wrapped bullets. "I've got four Phenergan suppositories for vomiting and three Tylenol ones. All are _pediatric_ doses though, so, if they're gonna be at all effective, we'll have to double up on 'em. Since we don't have many, I don't think we ought to use 'em unless we have no other choice. I also have half a dozen DuoNeb doses." The doctor fingered several of the clear plastic tubes with the twist-off tops. "His lungs sound clear so I'm hoping we won't need these."

Dr. Jessup directed the group's attention to the next pile of items. "The blood pressure cuff, stethoscope, exam gloves, thermometer and these few sterile towels are handy. The nebulizer machine will be, too, if we run into breathing issues and need to do inhalation treatments with the DuoNeb. I suppose the pulse oximeter is a nice way to monitor Sam's oxygen levels but, seein' as we don't have any oxygen to give, I'm not sure what good it'll do. And the ear and eye scopes, tape measure and reflex hammer are pretty much useless at this point."

"But...there's no," Dean stammered as his eyes flashed over the small desk and the items that laid upon it. Glaringly missing were any large, plastic bags of IV fluids. "If he can't drink, how are we going to hydrate him?"

"That's where this final pile comes in." The old man's arm curled around the things on the very right hand side of the desk, drawing them towards him. "It contains our most important and, unfortunately, our most primitive means of helping Sam."

"Why doesn't that sound too comforting?" Dennis shifted anxiously from foot to foot.

"I wish I had all of the intravenous supplies I need, too, Dennis." Dr. Jessup looked up from his seat and locked eyes with his longtime friend. "But the Wind River Clinic ran low on supplies and I re-stocked 'em this mornin' from the small stash I keep in my Jeep." The physician picked up a small clutch of long, thin peel-packs in his right hand and waggled them in the air in front of himself. " 'Cept for these few IV catheters, I'm tapped out. We've got nothin'."

Bobby watched the color drain from Dean's face at the physician's words. The young hunter had been teetering on an emotional precipice related to Sam's health much too frequently of late. Aching for him, Bobby asked the question he knew that Dean couldn't repeat. "So how do you propose we hydrate him then?"

"Strap yourselves in and prepare for a quick trip back in time, folks," the physician explained somewhat cryptically.

"While I make a silk purse outta this sow's ear..." Dr. Jessup's eyes flashed over the array of items strewn on his desk before turning in his chair and looking up into Debra's worried eyes. His words tumbled out quickly, leaving no question about the urgency of his demands. "...I need you down in that kitchen. Dump a rounded teaspoon of salt into a liter of water and boil it for ten minutes. Set that pan aside to cool and do it all over again with another pot. Keep boiling salt water mixes and settin' them aside to cool until you've used every pan you've got. Understand?"

Debra shook her head seriously and repeated the instructions. "A rounded teaspoon of salt in a liter of water, boil for ten minutes, set aside and do it all over with the next batch. Got it."

"Good. I'll be sendin' Dennis down with more instructions in a few minutes. In the meantime, Dean, Cameron, keep up the sheet work." Jessup indicated the mess of items on the desk's top. "I get this worked out, I'll be over and we'll check his temperature again."

**ooo000ooo**

"Good thing Cameron's not over here to see this." Dennis was hunched over, hands leaning the weight of his upper body on the desk as he watched Dr. Jessup work. He peered over his shoulder and checked to see that they hadn't attracted the extreme athlete's attention. He was bound to find out eventually that Dr. Jessup was slicing the squeeze valve from the end of the drinking tube on his Platypus Rehydration Bladder but Dennis wasn't sure he was prepared to fight _that_ fight just yet.

Dr. Jessup grunted noncommittally. Although they didn't live anywhere around Crowheart, Gilchrist EnviroIndustries had holdings in the area and Jessup knew the family was loaded. It wasn't like Cameron couldn't afford to replace a simple reinforced plastic bladder with a tube and drinking valve on it. "Daddy can buy him another. Don't think Dean can buy himself a new brother."

Dennis chuckled quietly to himself. Doc Jessup always had an honest, straightforward and undeniably wise way of looking at things. It might have been a product of his upbringing, his medical training, his basic personality or the accumulated wisdom of so many years and Dennis suspected it all played a part, but right now, he was awfully glad the aging medic was here and running the show.

"Ok." Jessup sat back and wiped a gnarled hand across his brow. He let out a long sigh and turned to Dennis. "I need you to take these things to the kitchen. You and Debra need to find a big pot, large as you can..."

"How 'bout one I do lobsters in? That big enough?"

"Sounds perfect. Does it have a rack for the bottom?" Jessup gathered up the handful of items he'd spent the last fifteen minutes sorting from the scavenged supplies and handed them to Dennis. "This stuff needs boiled, too, but we've got to get the water boiling around _all_ of it's surfaces in order to sterilize it. To do that, it can't sit on the pan's bottom – not to mention that we can't risk melting holes in any of it by letting it sit directly against the heated pan."

"No problem. Ten minute boil, Doc?"

"Ten minutes," Jessup confirmed. "I'm gonna check on our patient, but call me when time's up - and don't touch anything. It'll be as sterile as it's gonna get and I need to keep it that way."

"Sure thing, Doc."

Jessup watched as Dennis disappeared through the bedroom door with his small armload of supplies and sent up a silent prayer. How was it that 1930's-style medical practices had seemed advanced and instilled him with such pride and confidence at that time and yet, now, similar procedures seemed so utterly inadequate and disquieting? Pushing his unease to the background, Jessup rose and crossed the room to where Sam lay with Dean and Cameron in attendance.

Sam's eyes were open and lazily wandering the room. His heavy lids blinked slowly and a haze of fevered confusion glazed his eyes. His brother's voice pulled the boy's attention and his gaze, but the effects of the fever had both sliding quickly away again. Sam's limbs swam a few times beneath the damp sheet that covered him, the muscles jerkily contracting their way through the purposeless movements.

"Took that on Thursday." The words slurred haphazardly across Sam's parched lips.

"Took what on Thursday?" After doing this for some time, Dean was beginning to realize it was futile trying to communicate meaningfully with his feverish baby brother but he'd continued trying, hoping each time that Sam's touch on reality would return.

"The wedding." Sam's gazed locked on Dean's face briefly, lids drooping leadenly. When his eyes opened again his gaze had slipped away once more. "Omaha."

"Omaha?" Dean quickly wracked his brain of all the places the small Winchester clan had lived and/or hunted. Omaha didn't make the list. "Never been there, bro. You and Jess go while you were in school?"

Sam's eyes rolled in their sockets and he blinked owlishly but didn't respond. A soft groan accompanied renewed movements of his limbs and Dean reached out, raking his fingers through the sweat-matted hair at Sam's temple. "The boots..." Sam's face scrunched in bewilderment. "...boots are too big."

"I know, buddy," Dean reassured and looked anxiously to Dr. Jessup. "He's still really out of it, Doc."

"I hear that." Jessup moved the chair he'd settled into closer to the bed so that he could examine his patient better. "Could be the dehydration and we might not see much improvement in that 'til we get some fluids in 'im again. Still, it's 'bout time we check his temp again anyway and I'm pretty sure he'd rather we did it orally than, uh...the alternate way."

Jessup leaned into Sam's line of vision and gently shook his left shoulder. "Sam, it's Doc Jessup. I'm gonna check your fever. Can you open your mouth for me? I need you to open your mouth."

Sam's head rolled on the pillow in the direction of the physician's voice but that was the extent of his response. His glazed eyes showed no hint of comprehension so Dr. Jessup slowly wormed the digital thermometer between Sam's chapped lips. Receiving no resistance, the doctor carefully advanced the thermometer's tip until it slipped softly under Sam's moistureless tongue.

"You told me the last reading was 105.3" Dean confirmed Jessup's statement with an affirmative nod. "By now, I would expect the sheetin' to have brought him down probably a full degree."

The silver-haired man pulled the thermometer from Sam's mouth when it chimed and, readjusting his trifocals so that he could read the display, peered at the LCD numbers. He bit at his lower lip and huffed quietly. "105.1 Seems your brother has a stubborn streak."

"Inborn Winchester trait." Bobby's rich tenor grumbled as he strode into the room. "Their Daddy was the stubbornest bastard I ever met and the two of 'em are followin' right along in his footsteps."

Dr. Jessup chuckled heartily as Dean mugged a look of surpise that said Bobby couldn't _possibly _be talking about him.

"Yes, you too! Both'a you are too hard-headed for your own good." Bobby moved up along the left side of the young hunter's bed, his own meaty hand coming to rest on Sam's forearm and giving it a light, affectionate squeeze. "Hey, Sam. How you doin', buddy?"

Sam looked at him through tiny slits that blinked unnaturally slowly and he squirmed slightly under Bobby's touch. "Footboots. Jordan footboots." The heat that scorched Bobby's fingertips was concerning but Sam's slow response and nonsensical speech twisted the older hunter's gut. "Footboots on Jordan." Bobby shook his head and looked at the others in frustration. He just couldn't make out what Sam was trying to tell him.

"Fever's still up," Dean said by way of explanation. "I do remember him saying a few times, though, that he and his Standford buddies used to play pick-up football games on campus - some place called Jordan Quad. Maybe that's what that's all about."

"Maybe." Bobby wasn't sure if that was it or not but he didn't want to waste more time trying to figure it out. He'd actually come up to give Dr. Jessup a message. "Want to let you know, Doc, Dennis said to let you know your stuff was done boiling."

"Ok, thanks. Can you guys keep sheetin' him while I take care of the other things?"

Cameron looked up in surprise and his eyes bounced uneasily between the other men. "Shouldn't we be giving him the Tylenol? I mean, this sheet thing's only brought his fever down two-tenths of a degree. It's obviously not working."

"I disagree," Dr. Jessup objected quietly. "His fever didn't come _down _much, and I would have liked to have seen more, but it didn't go _up_, either. We keep doin' what we've been doin', conserve what little we've got and pray things don't get so bad we _need_ to use it."

**ooo000ooo**

Dr. Jessup settled once again into the uncomfortable wooden chair at the oak desk in Sam's room where Debra had already placed, now that it had cooled to room temperature, one of her liter pots of boiled salt water. As she and Dennis, Dean, Bobby and Cameron looked on, Jessup slowly unfolded a long, blue, rough-woven towel, being careful not to touch the inside of the towel nor the contents held within it.

Reaching into his canvas medical bag, the senior citizen pulled out a thin plastic package and, setting it on the desk next to the blue towel, peeled it open with the same care he'd given to the towel. Reaching in with the index and thumb of his right hand, he gripped the paper sheaf that lay inside and opened it like a book. The paper wrapper crinkled noisily in the tense silence of the room.

From his vantage point, Dean could see printing on each "page" of the paper. On the left page was typed, 'Thumb on Left' and on the opposite page, 'Thumb on Right'. Jessup barely gripped each "page's" edge and folded them outward. Inside, lay two sterile exam gloves, the cuffs folded back on themselves, the thumbs pointing exactly as the wrapper had noted.

Grabbing the right glove by the folded-over cuff, the doctor worked his knobby fingers into place, making certain not to touch the outer surface of the glove with the skin of either hand. Using his now-gloved right hand, Jessup slipped the fingertips of his right hand underneath the folded cuff of the left glove, pulled it from the packaging and wriggled it onto his left hand. He laced the fingers of his gloved hands together and worked them around a little to give the gloves their final seat. Satisfied that he'd be able to perform his task without breaking sterile technique, he concentrated on the items that lay upon the blue towel.

"We don't have enough tubing on Cameron's Platypus so I'm going to use one of his extender links to join its tubing to some of the brewer's tubing Dennis pulled from his wine making supplies." Jessup pushed a small plastic tube into the end of the hydration bladder's tubing, then pushed the end of the wine siphoning tube onto it, joining the two tubings into one, long one. Next, he picked up the worm gear clamp they had boiled and slipped it, like an engagement ring, over the long finger of tubing. He slid it up high on the tubing, about ten inches from the bladder bag and screwed the clamp just tight enough that the tubing was squished completely closed.

"This worm gear clamp that Bobby pulled from his toolbox is going to act as a rate clamp. It'll let me adjust how fast or slow our IV's fluid is goin' to flow."

Jessup picked up a plastic syringe, longer and smaller around than the syringes Dean was familiar with, twisted off the removable needle and pulled the plunger from inside its length with a tiny 'pop'. Using a scalpel, he cut away three-quarters of its length and taking hold of the shortest portion, pushed it gently into the tubing's end. "This end of the tuberculin syringe," Dr. Jessup indicated the small end of the syringe where the needle had been removed and which now stuck slightly out beyond the end of the tubing, "...will plug right into the hub of one of my intravenous catheters. Now, if someone will handle the pan, we can get this filled and get on with the business of carin' for Sam."

Dean stepped forward immediately and gripped the pot by its handles. He knew enough about sterile procedure to know that he couldn't contaminate the fluid by touching the insides of the pan or he'd risk Sam getting 'blood poisoning' from his careless mistake. And that wasn't a risk he wasn't willing to take.

**ooo000ooo**

"Alright, Sam." Dr. Jessup's voice was calm as he spoke to the ill, young hunter, his hand resting gently on Sam's left forearm. He patted reassuringly and, though he wasn't sure how much Sam was processing, he wanted him to know what was going to happen. "We're gonna start an IV for you. I need you to hold as still as you can. OK?"

Sam sighed heavily and his eyes flickered shut before bouncing lazily open again with a quiet groan. It wasn't exactly an intelligible response but Dr. Jessup took it as a blanket approval just the same. The physician threaded a latex tourniquet under Sam's left upper arm and stretched it out. "This is gonna be tight, Sam."

Once satisfied he had enough stretch on the band, Jessup kept the tension while crossing the ends and tucking a small loop of the tourniquet underneath the other side. Applied in this way, the doctor knew he could quickly remove it with just one hand and a gentle tug on the end.

Dean and Bobby had seen this procedure performed more times than they could count – on themselves as well as others – and knew what to expect. The tourniquet would restrict blood flow enough that the veins would engorge, growing more visible as they grew larger and more firm, allowing the IV needle to pass into them and the Teflon cannula to be advanced into the vein.

Dean watched and waited. And waited some more. Jessup turned Sam's hand and arm this way and that and still no veins bulged beneath the skin's surface. The doctor's face was a study in concentration, the index finger of his left hand occasionally pushing up and down over specific areas on the back of Sam's hand, the thumb side of his wrist and in the crook of his elbow in search of a vein suitable to accept the IV.

After several minutes of scrutinizing Sam's arm, the aging medic sat back and considered the various IV catheters in his possession. He chose one and opened its packaging, then looked up intently at Dean and Bobby.

"I'm warnin' you now, gentlemen, this ain't gonna be easy. He's so dry that his veins are flat and difficult to locate...not to mention weaker than they'd usually be. Even if he's absolutely still, we're gonna have trouble gettin' in and they're likely to blow right easy. With that wound, this is the only arm we've got to work with, so it wouldn't hurt to have you steady this arm for me like this, Dean."

The eldest Winchester slipped one hand behind Sam's elbow and the other over top of his forearm just like the doctor had shown him. Jessup lightly tapped at a faint, blue line on the back of Sam's hand and then wiped it down several times with an alcohol wipe. He allowed the preparation to air dry and then gripped the fingers of Sam's hand in his left hand, the doctor's arthritic thumb resting on the large knuckles and pulling a slight tension on Sam's dry skin.

"Ok, Sam, you're gonna feel a needle poke. One...two...three."

The doctor pushed the IV needle through Sam's skin, the tip angled down slightly in search of the lackluster vein he'd settled on as their best choice. Sam gave no indication that he'd even noticed the sharp sting of the needle's penetration but Dean continued to support his arm as he'd been instructed by Dr. Jessup, just in case.

Dean surmised that the first attempt at accessing the vein had been missed as he saw the doctor pull the needle back slightly, change the angle of approach and advance it a little again. Three additional tries at different angles proved to be just as unsuccessful and Dean was thankful that Sam appeared unaware of any discomfort the repeated realignment of the needle might be causing.

"Dammit!"

The elder's invective had Dean's immediate attention and he watched as the medic clamped his left thumb down over a gauze pad he placed at the needle's insertion site then popped the tourniquet with his right hand and removed the IV needle and cannula.

"I got into the vein but it blew immediately."

Jessup lifted his thumb, revealing a bruised mound under Sam's skin where the needle had been inserted. Placing a fresh, folded gauze square over the area, he secured it with a long strip of tape.

"We're gonna have to look for a different site."

As the doctor pulled a new IV cath from its packing, Dean reapplied the tourniquet around his baby brother's upper arm. After wiping down the area with an alcohol pad, Jessup's second needle was poised over a vein along the thumb side of Sam's wrist.

"You're gonna feel another pinch, Sam. Hold real still."

The needle plunged through Sam's skin and Dean felt his brother's arm twitch suddenly in his grasp. He tightened his hold on Sam's arm as Bobby spoke softly to him.

"Hold still, Sam. Once we get this in, you'll start feeling better. That's it. Just hold real still."

Jessup had stopped moving when Sam flinched, the hand that gripped the IV needle holding its position while moving with the motion of Sam's arm. Now that Sam had quieted again, Jessup advanced the needle in search of the vein. Sam moaned loudly and his wrist twisted wildly in Dean's grip.

"Hold him, Dean!" The centenarian knew that Dean didn't need reminded of how important it was to keep his brother's arm still but the words reflexively popped out in the heat of the moment.

"There's a nerve that runs along this vein! I must be janglin' it huntin' around for the damned thing! No wonder he's fightin' us!"

"They'll be done soon. I promise. I know it hurts." Bobby leaned close into Sam's ear, hoping that the boy was understanding his words but knowing he wasn't as his struggles seemed to intensify. "Ya gotta trust me that we're tryin' to help you. Please, Sam, just try to hold still a little longer."

"I'm in!" Dr. Jessup's triumphant words rang out as he saw a small flash of blood appear at the rear of his IV needle. He pushed the cannula ahead with a flick of his right index finger but found it wouldn't thread completely in. The country doctor removed the needle, setting it safely aside where no one would be inadvertently stuck with it. Returning his attention to the cannula, Jessup gingerly propelled it forward but, once again, met resistance.

"I'm up against one of the venous valves and it won't advance. It's gonna infiltrate for sure if I leave it this far out so I'll have to try 'floatin' it in. Dennis, hand me that tubing and don't let the connecting end touch anything."

The healer intended to use the flushing action of the dripping IV fluids to flutter the vein's valves open to allow the catheter to be slid gently up its length. As Jessup lightly pushed the tubing into the colored, plastic needle hub Sam jerked his arm back, twisting the wrist as the physician's ministrations stimulated a painful electric-like current up through the nerve in his wrist and zinging along his forearm.

"Hold still, Sammy!" Dean hated yelling at his brother because knew that Sam wasn't aware enough to know what was going on and was acting purely out of instinct. But that didn't change the fact that the only way they were going to help Sam was going to hurt and, no matter what, they _had _to keep Sam from fighting their already difficult task of establishing intravenous access.

Dean's eyes shot to where the doctor's hands clutched desperately at Sam's wrist. "Did we lose it? Is the IV still in?"

"I don't know! I can't let go long enough to look!"

Bobby abandoned his attempts to talk to Sam. It was clear that trying to reason with the boy wasn't having any effect and he was better utilized trying to quell Sam's frenzied combativeness. The junk man lay his upper body across Sam's writhing torso and wrapped his large hands around his young friend's forearm, helping Dean to steady the still flexing limb so that the doctor could attend to the IV.

Bobby's additional help stilled Sam's arm well enough that Jessup felt confident in releasing the death grip he held on the wrist and IV. His eyes quickly scanned the site.

"The cannula's pulled out a bit more but I think we're still ok – as long as it floats in like I'm wantin' it to."

Jessup advanced the cannula up through the vein again until he felt the familiar resistance.

"Ok, Dennis, open the fluids up slowly. Since our set-up doesn't have a drip chamber like modern IV's we're gonna have to keep a super close eye on fluid levels in the bag. Last thing we need to do is to take Sam from too dry to fluid overload. _Too_ _much _can be just as bad as not enough."

Everyone held their breath as Dennis slowly turned the screw that loosened the worm gear from its tightly clamped position around the tubing. Jessup's eyes were glued to the site where the IV penetrated the skin of Sam's wrist. Seconds later a large, colorless wheal ballooned underneath the skin and quickly began to spread.

"Turn it off! Turn it off! Stop the flow!"

Jessup shook his head in frustration and scrubbed a time-worn hand across his face. Pulling another gauze patch from it's paper packet, he placed it over the insertion site and removed the cannula. He wrapped the end of the IV in the gauze's paper wrapper simply by crushing it around the tubing with one hand.

"Keep that clean. Don't let it touch anything but the inside of that paper," Jessup barked as he handed it back to Dennis. "His veins are so flat and fragile right now that they're not puttin' up with the punishment of cannulation. With all that wrestlin', we busted right through the wall of the vein and our IV fluids were leakin' right into the tissues under the skin. That's why it swelled straight off when Dennis started the drip."

**ooo000ooo**

The aged physician sat back in his bedside chair and sighed deeply. He pulled his thick-lensed glasses from his wrinkled face and rubbed at his eyes. He'd known that establishing an intravenous line in his debilatated patient wasn't going to be easy because of the severe dehydration. This most certainly wasn't the first time he'd faced this problem in his decades of medical practice serving the reservation and the tiny towns dotted around the mountainous region. In fact, he took great pride in knowing that he was still quite skilled at initiating IV's, even at the age of 101. It often caused him great consternation that most younger physician's intravenous skills were minimal, at best, since IV therapy was most commonly performed by nursing staff now. At this moment, he was more than pleased that he hadn't bowed to more modern ways and had retained his skills by continuing to do things for himself.

Even though he'd known the difficulty facing him, Jessup somehow felt an even greater sense of pressure with Sam Winchester. Maybe, over the years, he'd grown a bit softer than he'd thought he'd had, having the hospital in Riverton to fall back on if his back was really against the wall. Maybe he _was _starting to feel his age and the strain was taking its toll on his body, his skills _and _his emotions. Or maybe it was the five pairs of expectant eyes that watched him, waited, collective breath held as each attempt was made...and failed. Even Cameron, whom the doctor knew had some sort of antagonistic relationship with Sam and his older brother, had started taking on a distressed and disappointed look with each unsuccessful attempt.

But it was one set of eyes in particular that had inadvertently been pouring on the pressure. The anguished desperation in the vibrant hazel eyes of the older brother was only heightened by the crystalline glint of barely contained tears and it pulled mercilessly at Jessup's heartstrings. Death and loss weren't something that should visit someone so young.

There was more to it, though. He'd felt obligation to his patients and empathy to the families throughout his career. It had been a hard road, learning to distance yourself just enough for emotional self-preservation but not so much that you lost the all-important connection with your patient...or your own humanity. Sometimes he'd done well at it. And other times, like right now, not so much. If anyone would have asked, he couldn't have explained it, other than to say that there was something about the Winchester boys that spoke both of shared tragedy and of tenaciously held hope and he just couldn't lose this battle. Intuitively, Jessup knew that losing the battle for one brother would mean losing the other, as well.

The swirl of emotions, his own included, were bad enough. But sitting here, surveying the six, small gauzes that covered the unsuccessful start attempts that dotted various veins the length of Sam's left arm, Jessup felt the pressure pushing down on him like a two ton weight and his stomach twisted with uncertainty. Each successive attempt had been in a less desirable location, the vein having been more difficult to locate and Sam having grown more and more combative.

To top things off, Jessup could tell that Dean and Bobby were fully aware that he was down to his last three sterile IV catheters. That wasn't necessarily a bad thing – except that only one of those was suitably sized for veins as collapsed and dehydrated as Sam's. He _had _to be successful this time. Just using their homemade drip tubing and fluids was already going to put Sam at a huge risk for a blood-borne infection, on top of his current problems no less, so having to resort to reusing dirty catheters, too, would be akin to dumping a whole can of gasoline onto a raging fire.

Jessup sighed again. Sam's eyes were open but hazy and distant and showed no sign of understanding what was going on. Judging by the deepening flush in Sam's cheeks, Jessup guessed that his temp had climbed again, possibly higher than before. He hoped that, once the line was in and running and Sam was no longer fighting them, that the fever would drop back down again.

"I'm sorry, Sam, but we've got to try again. I need you to hold very, very still." It was doubtful that Sam even heard him and almost certain that he didn't understand the words, but he guessed it still didn't hurt to let him know what was about to happen anyway. Picking up the tourniquet, Jessup shoved the rumpled sheet from over Sam's lower legs and deftly applied the constricting band around Sam's mid-calf.

"What-...what are you doing?" Dean's eyes bounced anxiously between the doctor, his brother and his long-time friend. "Bobby, what's he doing?!"

"It's ok, Dean." Jessup assured as Bobby raised a restraining hand to Dean's arm as the older Winchester made a move toward the physician. "There's nowhere else to go in his left arm and I certainly can't stick that other one." The doctor pointed a crooked index finger at Sam's right arm, the gaping wound standing out like a neon sign where the dressings had been knocked askew in Sam's struggles. "I'm hoping I can find a decent vein in the top of his foot or near his ankle."

Jessup used the back of his index finger to flick at a small vein that had appeared over the bridge of Sam's foot. He stopped and peered down at it, moving Sam's foot a few times to see the vessel at different angles. "This one's not bad." Jessup pushed the tip of his finger lightly up and down on the vein and felt a slight 'bounce' from the vessel's walls. "Not as 'juicy' as I'd like to see, but at least it's straight. Still," the medic went on as he pulled the tourniquet loose, "let's check the other foot before we go stickin' him again."

In a blur of tumbling fingers, Jessup had the tight rubber band applied onto Sam's other calf in seconds.

"Oh, yes, yes. Good thing we looked over here first." The elderly gentleman was happily bouncing the tip of his index finger on a vein in the top of Sam's right foot. "This one's much 'juicier'; bit more meat to it. Not fabulous, mind you, but at least it's a tad better."

Jessup cleansed the area with a small alcohol pad, pleased when the vein plumped under the stroking motion of the swab. He tossed the alcohol wipe down and considered his options. He had one 24-gauge catheter. He wouldn't be able to run fluids very quickly through an IV that small. After all, that size needle was only intended to be used on tiny infants as the catheter was of extraordinarily small diameter and only about three-quarters of an inch long. He also had two 18-gauge caths, a common size for an adult because of the larger diameter and inch-and-a-quarter length.

Both sizes had their pros and cons. The small diameter of the 24-gauge would be less likely to damage Sam's already weakened veins and, therefore, increase their chances of successfully starting an IV line – especially in his foot. On the other hand, that same small diameter would make the catheter susceptible to getting clotted off if the IV didn't flow fast enough – something that was going to be hard to judge since they didn't have a drip chamber they could watch. If it clotted and he couldn't get it flushed back open, something that rarely worked on IV catheters that small, they were back to being without IV access.

The 18-gauge, on the contrary, wouldn't be near as apt to clot off as the 24-gauge and, with its much longer length, it would be more securely inserted into the vein. Normally, Jessup would have loved the idea of a larger bore – deliver more fluids, faster - but, in this situation, the catheter's larger size actually turned out to be its biggest drawback. On a good day, cannulating a foot vein, even a great one, with an 18-gauge was dicey...and this vein was _far_ from great.

Sam's eyes had drooped shut shortly after he'd applied the tourniquet to the boy's leg and Jessup was secretly thankful that the boy had given in to his exhaustion. If luck was on their side, he could get the IV started without Sam ever knowing what they were doing.

"Ok, folks," Jessup started as he pulled the IV catheter from its yellow packaging and popped the guard off the needle. "Even though Sam's out again, I want _all _of ya holdin' him down. This is it. If we don't get in this time..."

The doctor's words quietly faded into the heavy atmosphere of the room but their implication came through as loud and clear as the shrill bleating of a ship's klaxon. Dean could hardly breathe. _This is Sammy's last chance. What if we blow it? What if we can't get the IV in?_

Cameron leaned his weight across one leg while Bobby did the same to restrain the leg Dr. Jessup would be working on. Dennis leaned across Sam's middle, pinning his hips to the bed so that he couldn't squirm too much while Debra clutched at Sam's left hand and arm. That left Dean the job of carefully restraining the wounded and still-swollen right arm. The positioning didn't afford him a view of how things were going with the IV insertion, but Dean was OK with it since he was where he could talk to his brother, reassure him.

Jessup's hand clutched the 24 gauge tightly and was poised over his chosen vein. "Here we go." An instant later, the tip of the needle pierced through the skin on the top of Sam's foot and penetrated the vein. The young hunter hadn't even flinched but Jessup worked quickly anyway to advance the catheter completely into the vein. This IV stick was successful and he wasn't going to take any chances on losing it.

"Dean, hand me the line!"

The eldest Winchester didn't miss the sense of urgency in the doctor's voice and passed the IV tubing to him as quickly as possible. Dr. Jessup gently pushed the end of the IV tubing into the yellow plastic hub that protruded from Sam's skin and, holding it securely with one hand, used the other to snatch a large piece of medical tape from where he'd placed it on the edge of the bed's frame.

Several more pieces of tape followed in quick succession before Jessup applied a transparent plastic adhesive patch directly over the hub and insertion site. He doubled the tubing back on itself in a gentle arc and added three more strips of tape before he was satisfied that the IV was securely anchored.

"OK, Dean, you can start the fluids."

Jessup's eyes watched the insertion site intently. "So far, so good. I think everybody can relax now."

Cameron, Bobby and the two innkeepers pulled back from their restraining positions and peered questioningly at the grizzled physician.

"Open 'er up the whole way, Dean. We need to make sure that doesn't clot off. As tiny as that cannula is, it sure as hell ain't gonna be no Niagara Falls and he needs the fluids as fast as we can get 'em in."

Jessup checked the site again after Dean loosened the worm clamp completely. "Still no swelling. That's good. But, without that drip chamber, I can't be sure it's even runnin'. We'll have to keep an eye out to make sure the fluid level is slowly creepin' below that line I drew on the bag."

**ooo000ooo**

**15 minutes later**

Dr. Eugene Jessup noted the level of saline solution had dropped imperceptibly below the line he'd inked on the bag. That had been proof enough for him that the fluids were flowing. Now he needed proof that the fluids were flowing where they were _supposed_ to.

Jessup rose from his chair next to Sam's bed and walked the few steps to the foot end. He pulled back the sheet and bent to inspect the insertion site along the top of Sam's right foot. He could feel five pairs of eyes boring a collective hole in him as he gently touched the skin surrounding the IV catheter, feeling for the characteristic squish of fluids swelling the tissues around a leaking vein.

A small smile crept across his face as his fingers danced lightly over flesh that felt entirely normal.

"Fluids are runnin'. No swellin'. Looks like we've got ourselves an effective IV line, folks."

* * *

**To be continued...**

* * *

A/N: The 1971 single, "It Don't Come Easy", helped to launch Ringo Starr's post-Beatles solo career and is arguably his most recognized solo hit. Produced by ex-Beatle, George Harrison, controversy still swirls that Starr is not the true author of the song as demo tapes have surfaced in the years since its release where the song is more or less in its final form and it is George, not Ringo, that is heard singing lead vocals. Some music scholars feel the song's writing style is pure Harrison and that he simply gave the song, and the writing credits, to Starr to help establish his friend's solo career.

Regardless of authorship, the memorable, up-tempo single reached #4 on both US and UK charts and is notable for bringing together an all-star cast of rock 'n' roll greats long before the term 'super-group' was ever coined - Ringo Starr on lead vocals and drums, George Harrison on guitar, Manfred Mann bassist Klaus Voorman on bass guitar, Stephen Stills of Crosby, Stills & Nash on piano, session musician Ron Cattermole on trumpet and saxophone, long-time Beatles road manager/bodyguard Mal Evans on tambourine and Badfinger bandmates Pete Ham and Tom Evans on background vocals.

I thought this was a good song/chapter title choice since Bobby was asking for Sam's trust during the IV insertion and because gaining IV access on a dehydrated Sam apparently 'don't come easy'.


	16. A Hard Day's Night

**Disclaimer: **Not mine. I invited Bobby and the Winchester boys into my sandbox and, well, since I'm pathologically unable to play well with others, this is what happens.

**A/N #1: **For those of you not familiar with American history, Dr. Samuel Mudd was the Maryland physician who treated the ankle that was broken when John Wilkes Booth jumped from the balcony of Ford's Theater after assassinating President Lincoln on April 14, 1865. I make a note of it here because, despite being very modern at the time, Dr. Mudd's education would be considered pitifully lacking when compared to today's medical knowledge...and also because Dean's having naughty thoughts again.

**A/N #2: **Here's the scoop...I know that this chapter has been far, far too long in the making. I've written, changed, generally futzed, deleted, added, reconstructed and otherwise messed with it ad nauseum. It's hard to imagine, but I think the chapter's had more revisions than Obama's healthcare reform bill. At the heart of the problem was the fact that I just couldn't seem to get the friggin' thing to break where I wanted it to. When I did, the chapter was so short you would have missed it if you'd blinked. I tried to keep writing, moving further into the story, and hope that I could find another breaking point...I couldn't. I could have kept writing for months and not found what I was looking for. So, in an effort to post something before my 99th birthday, I went back and tried to "fluff up" the section to the chapter break that I had wanted in hopes that I could make a chapter of a decent length. The results are pretty much a sub-par chapter of voluminous drivel wrapped within a chapter of even more sub-par length. Proceed at your own risk.

* * *

**From the previous chapter:**

_Dr. Eugene Jessup noted the level of saline solution had dropped imperceptibly below the line he'd inked on the bag. That had been proof enough for him that the fluids were flowing. Now he needed proof that the fluids were flowing where they were supposed to._

_Jessup rose from his chair next to Sam's bed and walked the few steps to the foot end. He pulled back the sheet and bent to inspect the insertion site along the top of Sam's right foot. He could feel five pairs of eyes boring a collective hole in him as he gently touched the skin surrounding the IV catheter, feeling for the characteristic squish of fluids swelling the tissues around a leaking vein._

_A small smile crept across his face as his fingers danced lightly over flesh that felt entirely normal._

"_Fluids are runnin'. No swellin'. Looks like we've got ourselves an effective IV line, folks."_

_

* * *

  
_

**Atrox**

**Chapter 15: A Hard Day's Night**

Dr. Jessup's gloved and arthritis-gnarled fingers danced nimbly along the wound edges of Sam's right forearm. As they jitterbugged their way up Sam's arm, they stopped their lateral movement and tap danced repeatedly over the most reddened and inflamed area.

Sam moaned loudly and made a weak attempt at pulling his arm away from the physician's probing fingers but succeeded in little more than a brief rippling of tensed muscles. There had been multiple failed attempts, but the IV had finally been initiated successfully a short time ago. It had taken the still quiet of sleep for Sam's fever to fall back to the previous reading of 105.1, but it had stubbornly refused to drop any further.

"I'm sorry, Sam. I don't mean to hurt you." The physician's brow creased in concentration as he lightly pushed around the edges of the same area, slowly working his fingers toward the central portion of the reddened area.

"What?" Bobby's eyes were glued to the physician and he didn't like the way the corners of the old man's mouth had pulled down as he poked at the most swollen portion of the wound. "You find something?"

"I'm a little concerned about an area of fluctuance that I feel in the proximal por-..."

"In English, Doc," Bobby interrupted.

The mechanic-turned hunter had picked up a lot of medical lingo over the years. He almost couldn't help it. You just didn't sustain your own injuries or care for those of other hunters for as many years as he had and not learn a thing or two. Still, what he had learned had been just enough to hold his own and get a basic understanding of what was going on. He thought he had a pretty good idea what the doctor was starting to say but, where the Winchester boys were concerned, he wanted to make certain he knew exactly what it was that they were facing.

"Oh, sorry."

The doctor's cheeks colored slightly over the fact that he'd slipped subconsciously back into doctor-speak mode. It had been something he was finding easy to do since the boy's older brother and uncle had a much better grasp of medical procedures and terminology than the average person. They'd probably been exposed to quite a bit of it in the post-surgical period of whatever procedure it was that the boy had had done, but that still didn't mean that he could assume they understood everything.

"I'm feeling fluctuance...a kind of soft, boggy area...over the proximal portion of the wound." Jessup indicated the angry looking area along the upper portion of Sam's forearm. "That's this section here."

"Infection." Dean could hardly even get the word out. Dr. Hartzell had warned them of this; warned them that Sam could go septic if he didn't agree to having the arm amputated. Yeah, the guy was a heartless bastard the way he'd talked to Sam but, regardless of his insensitivity and tactlessness, it sure looked like the guy knew what he was talking _about_.

"Maybe. Maybe not."

What the hell was with this guy? Did he forget today's dose of Geritol or something? Maybe his Polident had his dentures secured so tightly that blood wasn't flowing to the man's brain. Or maybe the guy was so high on Ben-Gay fumes that he couldn't think straight. Swollen, reddened wound, high fever, confusion...it couldn't be anything else _but _infection! _Leave it to Sam to end up with a doctor so senile and antiquated that Samuel Mudd's education looked modern!_

"Good possibility, I suppose," Jessup conceded, "but could just be some fluid got trapped as the wound started healin' over. I'd guess this thing drained pretty good along the way."

Bobby shook his head emphatically. "Like a sieve."

The centenarian nodded his head knowingly. "Well, can't tell which it is, infection or fluid pocket, 'til we open 'er up a bit. I think we'll be safe snippin' out these two retention sutures." Dr. Jessup used the tip of the small scissors he'd picked up to indicate two of the large stitches over the inflamed area near the very end of the wound. "That'll gimme access without addin' too much stress to the rest of them stitches. Don't need 'em pullin' right on through the rest'a the skin and splittin' the whole damned thing wide open."

Debra turned away just as Jessup's hand was poised over the wound but she could still hear the harsh 'clip', 'clip' of the scissors as they severed the thick, heavy sutures. Sam's low groan as the elderly man pulled the sutures free of the excoriated, festering tissues made her cringed. She'd never seen such a horrible looking wound and her mind conjured up all sorts of nauseating ideas of what the doctor would find.

"Huh."

"What the...?"

Jessup's confounded grunt and Bobby's clipped invective tumbled out on top of each other. Neither one were responses that Debra had been expecting and she turned cautiously back around, fearful of just what it was that she might see.

Her eyes were drawn to a small amount of thick, yellowish pus that had dribbled from the wound. The sight certainly wasn't pleasant, but her imagination had conjured up thoughts of something so much worse. In an odd way, she had to marvel at the fact that there was not nearly as much of the fetid glop as she had envisioned. Nor, for that matter, apparently as much as Dr. Jessup, or any of the others had presumed, either, if she judged by the looks of unabashed surprise glazed on each of their faces.

Dr. Jessup wordlessly pressed the flat of his index finger next to the newly opened section of the wound. Rolling the finger slowly towards the now-gaping skin, he kept a firm and consistent pressure on the tissues as he worked. A meager amount of additional pus gurgled up from the inside as his finger rotated towards the wound opening and he used his other hand to dab it away with a sterile gauze. The doctor repeated the same technique several more times in an attempt to express more pus, Sam's cries of pain growing louder with each effort, but was unable to produce any further infected matter.

As the aging caregiver sat back with a huff of consternation, the astonished looks on everyone's faces disappeared and were quickly replaced by expressions of confusion. Why had there been so little pus in such a horrendous looking wound? Surely, infection was the most logical reason for the young man's illness, wasn't it? Jessup pulled the exam gloves from his hands, the stretchy, rubber-like material making a loud 'thwack' as it popped free of his fingers. He reached up and tiredly scrubbed a hand over his face.

Simply put, he'd mentioned the possibility of a simple, benign fluid pocket as a way of downplaying the specter of significant infection. The older brother had looked as though he was teetering on the edge of a breakdown and he'd offered the theory purely in an attempt to sooth the boy's threadbare nerves. The truth be told, though, he really hadn't held out much hope for finding anything _but _a massive abscess.

In reality, what the physician had found, or more rightly _didn't _find, was a bit of a bombshell – even to him. Just as he'd thought, there hadn't been a simple fluid pocket...but there really hadn't been pus, either. The amount of purulent drainage that he'd located tucked within the wound was, in a word, unimpressive. The relatively small amount of infected matter certainly didn't seem to indicate an infection severe enough to account for how sick his young patient was. _Unless..._**_._**

_God, this was going to be a long, hard night._

Jessup steeled his features and tried not to broadcast the sudden wash of dread, foreboding and defeat that flowed over him. On one hand, he had a patient who's symptoms seemingly contradicted each other. On the other, he had virtually _nothing _that he could use to properly diagnose and treat that patient. If he wasn't able to figure out, with even the _slightest_ degree of certainty, what was wrong, how in God's name could he be expected to know where to begin to fix it...or even _if _he could fix it?

"I can see the gears turnin', 'Gene, and I know something's got you worried."

Jessup looked up into the narrowed gaze of Dennis Wilcox. They'd been friends for many years now and it was obvious that the gregarious innkeeper had gotten just a little too good at reading him.

"We deserve-...**.**" Dennis gestured in Dean's direction with a flick of a hand. "Hell, _he _deserves to know just how bad things are gonna get."

Dr. Jessup nodded tightly and sighed. He was reluctant to admit what he was thinking, but Dennis was right. It was better to be up-front with everyone and let them in on a few ugly truths. If his suspicions were correct, the group was going to need some time to deal with their emotions and mull things over in order to decide if they were up to continuing to help to nurse the youngest Winchester.

"You're right, Dennis. God as my witness, I don't like it...and don't get used to me admittin' it...but you're right." Jessup's eyes trailed over Sam once more before meeting the faces of the assembled group with both seriousness and empathy. "As nasty as it sounds, I was really hopin' for more pus in that wound than we found. Sam's high fever certainly suggests infection and that would have wrapped things up in a nice, neat little package that we could treat."

Cameron Gilchrist was trying to follow what Dr. Jessup was suggesting, but the physician's statement had him confused. He knew that a lot of people saw nothing more in him than some puffed up, jet-setting, brainless jock and he supposed it didn't help that he'd chosen to put off his university studies in favor of the playboy life - doing his own thing and seeing the world - all of it on Daddy's dime. He certainly wasn't any Albert Einstein or Stephen Hawking, but he wasn't an idiot, either, and he wanted to understand what was going on.

"So it's _not _infection?"

"I didn't say that, Cam," Jessup clarified. "But we would'a run half a chance'a curin' a localized infection pretty easy. What concerns me is the proximity of this wound to Sam's brachial artery." The doctor used his gnarled finger to trace the path of Sam's artery in the air above the wound on the hunter's right arm. "I have no way of knowing if it's happened, but if infected cells have entered Sam's bloodstream, it's a whole nuther ballgame."

Jessup held his breath, hoping that no one would ask just what "ballgame" that might be. He knew that the group understood the general dangers of sepsis, that much was clear. Still, with Dean already wound tighter than a three dollar watch, he really didn't want to have to introduce the possibility that bacteria could be washed into Sam's heart through his bloodstream and, finding a cozy and well-oxygenated atmosphere, could set up housekeeping – with devastating results.

Just the thought of it made Jessup's stomach lurch. He felt hampered enough as it was trying to tend to Sam's dehydration and extensive wound with the basic supplies at their disposal. But, the sensation of being crippled in his care of the young man was only made worse by the knowledge that most of those supplies were _so _primitive that they were crudely made from miscellaneous car parts and household items.

That was all bad enough, but he was potentially up against something worse. If bacteria had been swept into Sam's heart and he developed infective endocarditis, Jessup wasn't just handicapped in his treatment of the boy - his hands would just plain be tied. He would be inexorably forced into the appallingly hideous position where his education would give him the know-how to treat his patient and his situation would completely and utterly castrate his ability to do so.

"What -...What do you mean you have no way of knowing if infected cells have entered Sam's bloodstream?" Debra's voice broke over the words as she struggled to contain her emotions and to not fall apart. "Can't you just draw a blood sample and find out?"

"Sure," Jessup agreed, a somewhat sarcastic edge inadvertently creeping into his tone at the injustice of being thrown into the situation he was now facing. It's a physician's worst nightmare to come to the realization that there is nothing more that they can do and he felt as though the tide of events were sweeping him closer and closer to that point. "Wouldn't do no good, though, unless one'a ya's gotta a lab or a microscope stashed in your pocket for me to analyze the sample."

To this point, Dennis Wilcox thought he'd done pretty well at handling the various catastrophes – the discovery of a very ill Sam Winchester, the determination that they were trapped there by some lunatic with God only knows _what_ intentions, holding Sam down in order to start the IV...a _home-made_ one, at that. He couldn't put his finger on exactly what is was. Maybe it was something Dr. Jessup had said, or rather, maybe it was the things his good friend _wasn't _saying, but a prickling aura of unease was beginning to overwhelm Dennis and he could feel a cold sweat starting to trickle down his back.

"What do you suggest we do, then, 'Gene?"

"I continue to care for Sam as best I can...," Jessup remarked, not missing the fact that the older Winchester boy had suddenly collapsed heavily into the bedside chair. The young man looked shell shocked. His eyes were thrown wide in fear as they stared, bouncing anxiously along the floor at his feet, undoubtedly understanding much more about the seriousness of their situation than Jessup would have liked. "...while the rest'a you brainstorm like hell to find us a way outta here. Walk out, fly out, take a donkey cart out, I don't care. We just need to get Sam outta here."

Dennis huffed incredulously. "I know we're only a little less than ten miles from the town of Crowheart, but without a vehicle it might as well be ten _thousand_! In this terrain, it'll take us _days_ to carry Sam out...if we can even get past whatever nutcase stranded us here in the first place!"

"I know that! But what do you want me to do, Dennis? Huh?!" A sharp-edged tone had returned to the elderly man's voice and he tossed his hands in the air in frustration. It wasn't like he could work miracles. "I'm doin' the best I can, but I left my magic wand at home today!"

The room fell eerily silent as Jessup's vibrant sapphire gaze glared angrily at Dennis. The country doctor could feel that the stress and exhaustion were taking a toll on him and he felt terrible that he was uncharacteristically lashing out. Registering the slightly hurt look in his friend's eyes, Jessup bent his head down and combed his fingers through his silver locks. Taking a deep breath in an effort to decompress a little, he looked up again, sincere regret shining in his cobalt eyes.

"I'm sorry, Denny. You didn't deserve to have me unload on you like that."

"S'ok, 'Gene," Dennis assured his friend softly. "We're all tired, frustrated and scared and we're putting a lot on your shoulders. It's a lot to ask of anyone and it can't be easy."

"What happens...?" Cameron quietly stuttered to a stop. A strange mix of revulsion, apprehension and indecision washed across his rugged features. "What if we _don't _figure out what's wrong or-...or find a way out?"

For the first time since crumpling into the chair, Dean's head came up. Tears brimmed heavily at the rims of his reddened eyes as he stared unblinkingly at his ailing baby brother. One of his violently shaking hands swiped roughly at his face as a single tear breeched the dam, sliding down his cheek, and his voice cracked roughly.

"We sit here and watch Sammy die."

**ooo000ooo**

Until Dean had planted the idea, Debra hadn't for even one minute considered the possibility that Sam might do anything but recover. To her, it had been a given that Dr. Jessup would fix everything, Sam would wake and everyone would live happily ever after.

Dean's bluntly stated words had opened Debra's eyes that, in this tale, Prince Charming just might not be able to overcome the dangers he faced and the cowboys in the white hats that rode to his rescue might just lose. She'd been trying to push those thoughts from her mind ever since. Each time she came close to drying her tears, though, the horrible thoughts would come rushing right back in and the flow of tears would begin anew.

Dean had been able to handle that. Hell, if he had told the truth, he had wanted to bawl right along with the portly matron. If Debra had just cried softly, blown her way through a few dozen boxes of Kleenex and dabbed at her rather grotesquely smearing mascara; if Sam's IV had continued to silently drip and the sheet treatments had maintained the status quo, Dean was pretty certain he wouldn't have lost it. _If _it had all just stayed that way.

It didn't.

Sam had been slumbering relatively peacefully, occasional stirrings of his limbs and the crimson flush of his skin the only real indication of his suffering. As he had awakened, he had slowly begun to toss and within minutes his movements had escalated to an amazingly violent and inconsolable restlessness. Sam had dug at his skin, grinding and scraping his nails across its surface as though he were trying to claw himself right out of it and he'd writhed under the desperate hands of his caregivers; limbs flailing savagely, swinging and grappling at Dean's restraining arms and tearing at the bed linens. His incoherent screams and pain-filled cries of distress had filled the room with a tortured keening that had Debra breaking down into loud, wracking sobs.

The sobs had only grown more urgent and impassioned when Dr. Jessup announced that the thermometer had confirmed his suspicions that Sam's behavior was most likely due to yet another rise in his fever – this time to 105.6. Up to that point, the physician had been reluctant to expend the only supply of Tylenol suppositories they had, but the deterioration in the control of his temperature had made it clear that something else needed to be done to arrest any further soaring of Sam's fever.

Despite the help of the other men, the hunter's physical combativeness had made administering the suppositories quite a challenge. The pediatric strength of the medicine meant that they had to administer several of the suppositories, one after the other, further escalating Sam's struggles. Worse yet, even using every fever reducing suppository they had, they still hadn't achieved anything close to the strength of a normal adult dose and Jessup wasn't sure just how effective the children's medicine would be against a fever that seemed hell bent to rise to hellishly perilous heights.

The whole affair had been incredibly awkward and emotionally difficult for them all. Although they were doing what was best for Sam, it was still hard to hear the pained, panic-stricken screams of the feverish young man who was too consumed by illness to understand what was happening to him. The men, in particular, flushed with embarrassment at having to assist with giving a grown man medication in such a way and they'd pulled away as soon as the deed had been completed. Dennis had moved to attempt to comfort his overwrought wife and Cameron had retreated to the quiet privacy of the far corner of the room. It was then that Dean lost it.

"Take it! I don't care what Sam says or what Sam wants, take it!"

Dean stalked angrily around the room his hands flashing frenetically in the air, through his hair and down across his face. An aura of dangerously pent up rage billowed from the eldest Winchester as he pounded chaotically around the room, his fists clenching and un-clenching menacingly. A stunned silence descended like a heavy woolen blanket as all eyes warily followed Dean's wild movements.

Bobby had seen Dean like this only one other time, in that cabin in Cold Oak, and it had scared him then, too. Sam's lifeless body had lain on a ratty mattress in the next room while Bobby had told Dean that something big was going down, "something 'end-of-the-world-big'". He understood that Dean was grieving then, but he just hadn't expected it when the boy turned cold, vicious eyes on him and screamed in his face, so close that he could feel Dean's hot breath on his face, "Then let it end!". He could see the whole thing in his mind as vividly as the day it had occurred and the memory caused a shiver to pass through the junk man seconds before a blur of movement claimed Bobby's attention.

"Do it!" Dean grabbed the elderly doctor by the arm, causing him to stumble awkwardly as Dean's grip propelled him roughly to Sam's right side. "Amputate the goddamned arm!"

Jessup stared wide-eyed at the raging young man. His career had spanned many decades and he'd had some pretty unpleasant encounters with patients and their family members in those years. Demanding an amputation, though - this was a first and he wasn't quite certain how to handle it.

"DO IT!!" Dean's voice thundered through the small room and his eyes blazed intimidatingly at Dr. Jessup when the man didn't move.

"Dean-...**.**" Bobby stepped towards his young friend, his voice holding a hint of warning at the same time that his hand reached out and landed comfortingly on Dean's shoulder.

Dean furiously shrugged off Bobby's touch.

"No! Hartzell may have been a bastard of a surgeon but he was right! I never should have let Sam get away with refusing the amputation!" Dean grabbed Jessup's discarded canvas pack and the few contents still contained within it from the floor near the end of his brother's bed and tossed it harshly into the physician's chest, knocking the elderly practitioner backwards a few tottering steps. "But you're gonna do it now! You're gonna amputate his arm and Sam's gonna beat this and I'm not gonna lose my brother!"

"I understand how upset you are-," Jessup started.

"No! You don't!" Dean hollered back. His breaths were coming in harsh little pants and his eyes blazed with anger.

"Yes, I do!" Jessup affirmed, his voice rising to equal the force and volume of Dean's. "I was just sixteen when I watched my youngest sister die from peritonitis brought on by a ruptured appendix and I felt just as helpless as you do!"

Jessup paused to rein in his emotions and, when he began again, his tone had softened to that of empathetic understanding. "So, yeah, I get it, Dean. But even if I thought that taking the arm would help, I just don't have the facilities or equipment to do it. I don't have any anesthetics and I'd have to be able to saw through bone, tie off arteries..."

"It was done during the Civil War," Dean asserted, "under conditions just as primitive as ours."

"And a lot of good men were lost to blood loss and overwhelming infection, Dean," Jessup countered. "Anyway, if Sam's already septic, takin' the arm now would be like closin' the barn door now that the horse has run off."

**ooo000ooo**

**One and a half hours later**

The heated exchange between Dean and Dr. Jessup had burned bright, hot and quick. Like the sparking flash of black powder meeting flame, the verbal altercation flared vehemently and crescendoed swiftly before fading into the silence of tiny, melancholy knots of people lost in their own thoughts.

Dr. Jessup busied himself auditing and reorganizing the unused portion of their meager supplies on the top of the modest desk that had become his main work station. Dean and Bobby had resumed the round-robin application of damp sheets to Sam's overheated skin and had fallen into a nearly mechanical regularity of silent motions. Dennis had gently guided his emotional wife to an upholstered chair across the room where he dabbed tenderly at her tears while hitching breaths still rattled through her.

Cameron had banished himself to the far corner of the room, much as a naughty child is made to do while serving their sentence in a 'time out' chair. He'd remained withdrawn, his lips pressed tightly together as he fidgeted noiselessly with his hands. Occasionally, he'd steal uncertain glances at Sam and the distraught expressions on the faces of Dean and Bobby and then his nervous twitching would intensify.

Renewed motion and sounds from Sam's bed grabbed Cameron's attention. The young hunter had been fading in and out of consciousness ever since they'd successfully administered the Tylenol and the blonde athlete had come to the conclusion that he wasn't at all sure which phase was worse. Unconscious, Sam's breaths were so shallow and his body so still as to appear already dead. Conscious, he bucked and writhed and screamed in distress, no amount of consoling words or reassuring touch able to calm him until unconsciousness returned and claimed him once again.

If the younger Winchester's quickly escalating movements and anguished murmurings were anything to go by, this awakening wasn't going to be any easier to take than the others. Cameron just couldn't stand another round like the last. He simply couldn't sit and watch that again and that's all there was to it. Before he knew what he was doing, Cameron was up, across the room and pulling the bedroom door quickly shut behind him.

As Bobby and the elder Winchester struggled to keep the damp sheet across Sam's tossing form and his body in the cooling airflow of the fans, Dean gestured with a flick of his chin toward the door through which Cameron had disappeared. "He lasted a helluva lot longer 'n I would've guessed."

**ooo000ooo**

Cameron Gilchrist pushed the door to his room shut behind him, his eyes dropping closed as he tiredly leaned his back against the closed door. The quiet of the room was soothing to him after so long in the strained atmosphere he'd just fled. He took a deep breath and blew it out, allowing the pressure and tension he had been under to flow with it. It was as though a great weight had been lifted from his chest and, for the first time since Dean had lured him to Sam's room under false pretenses, he felt like he could breathe again.

He opened his eyes and peered around his room. As usual, he'd flaunted his social position by reserving the room with the most amenities and plushest sleep accommodations. Sure, he would 'rough it' when he was on the trail and camping, if top-of-the-line, state-of-the-art gear could be considered 'roughing it', but that didn't mean that he had to sacrifice the spoils of his family's wealth elsewhere. He looked longingly at the neatly made bed with its pile of assorted pillows of every shape and size and firmness. He was so exhausted already that he would have loved nothing more than to crash in the bed's luxuriant embrace and stay there for weeks, letting everyone wait on him hand and foot.

He closed his eyes and pushed the thought from his mind. As much as he might need it or want it, he didn't have the time to waste by grabbing some shut eye. It was long past due for this whole thing to be over and he'd finally decided it was time he did something about it.

He opened his eyes and scanned the room again. He wasn't looking at the inn's amenities this time. Instead, he looked at the things that he'd brought with him and, true to form, he had wallowed in wretched excess, yet again. He'd had many adventures over the past year or so and taken much from it. Among other things, he'd gotten schooled in the finer points of preparing chufa in Spain, meditated on the mysterious interconnections of the natural and supernatural worlds with Buddhist monks at a mountaintop monastery in Nepal, experimented with the effects of khat in Tanzania, sat at the feet of a voodoo princess in the inky darkness of a Louisiana bayou and even hunted for genies at the Majilis al Djinn in Oman, just to name a few. Along the way, he'd picked up all sorts of interesting items and knowledge as well as enough gadgets, trekking gear, toiletries and clothing to supply a small Third World nation for at least a year. God only knew what was in some of the luggage he hadn't even bothered to break open on this trip. Maybe he would be able to find something useful among them.

Taking another deep breath, he pushed himself away from the door. "Ok, Cam," he said to the empty room. "If you want to end this, it's time to work a bit of magic."

* * *

**To be continued...**

* * *

A/N: "A Hard Day's Night" holds the unusual distinction of being not only the title of a film, but also an album and a song. Released in 1964 at the height of Beatle-mania, the Beatles' mock-documentary comedy film and its accompanying album and title song track takes its name from a malapropism uttered by bandmate Ringo Starr after a particularly long session in the studio that lasted well into the night..."It's been a hard day's night."

Several significant events in rock history occurred around this film. While on set, George Harrison met his future wife, Pattie Boyd, for whom he wrote "Something" and "For You Blue". After separating from Harrison, Boyd married rocker Eric Clapton, whom she had met through his friendship with Harrison, and was purportedly the inspiration behind his hits "Layla", "Bell Bottom Blues" and "Wonderful Tonight". Also, a thirteen year old child actor at the time, Phil Collins was among the 350 audience members seen during the film's concert scene shot at Scala Theatre, London. He later went on to rock and roll fame of his own with the band 'Genesis' as well as a successful solo career.


	17. Don't Stop Believin'

**Disclaimer: **Not mine, no money. Blah, blah, blah.

**A/N#1: **Forgive me readers for I have sinned...Had I known during the construction of the previous chapter that this chapter wouldn't allow itself to be written the way that I had originally intended, I would have held off posting it and mashed this chapter section onto the last one to make a chapter of a _decent_ length instead of two separate 'shorties'. I've only compounded that sin by leaving you with yet another cliffie. That said, this chapter **_so _**didn't end up where I thought I was going to go with it, but that's probably good since I think it (accidentally) ended up going in a better direction.............maybe.

**A/N#2: **I apologize whole-heartedly to all of those reviewers to which I have not responded with my thanks. It certainly does not mean that I don't appreciate the time you take in sending them to me and please know that receiving them absolutely makes my day. In fact, they inspire me to continue writing when I have a rough couple of weeks like the past few have been.

**A/N#3: **In this chapter, I make a reference to Rube (Reuben) Goldberg. He was an American cartoonist and inventor who was best known for drawings of unbelievably complex machines that performed mundane tasks in exceptionally convoluted ways. A perfect example of a Rube Goldberg machine would be the mouse-catching device in the children's game, Mouse Trap.

* * *

**From the previous chapter:**

_Cameron Gilchrist pushed the door to his room shut behind him, his eyes dropping closed as he tiredly leaned his back against the closed door. The quiet of the room was soothing to him after so long in the strained atmosphere he'd just fled. He took a deep breath and blew it out, allowing the pressure and tension he had been under to flow with it. It was as though a great weight had been lifted from his chest and, for the first time since Dean had lured him to Sam's room under false pretenses, he felt like he could breathe again._

_He opened his eyes and peered around his room. As usual, he'd flaunted his social position by reserving the room with the most amenities and plushest sleep accommodations. Sure, he would 'rough it' when he was on the trail and camping, if top-of-the-line, state-of-the-art gear could be considered 'roughing it', but that didn't mean that he had to sacrifice the spoils of his family's wealth elsewhere. He looked longingly at the neatly made bed with its pile of assorted pillows of every shape and size and firmness. He was so exhausted already that he would have loved nothing more than to crash in the bed's luxuriant embrace and stay there for weeks, letting everyone wait on him hand and foot._

_He closed his eyes and pushed the thought from his mind. As much as he might need it or want it, he didn't have the time to waste by grabbing some shut eye. It was long past due for this whole thing to be over and he'd finally decided it was time he did something about it._

_He opened his eyes and scanned the room again. He wasn't looking at the inn's amenities this time. Instead, he looked at the things that he'd brought with him and, true to form, he had wallowed in wretched excess, yet again. He'd had many adventures over the past year or so and taken much from it. Among other things, he'd gotten schooled in the finer points of preparing chufa in Spain, meditated on the mysterious interconnections of the natural and supernatural worlds with Buddhist monks at a mountaintop monastery in Nepal, experimented with the effects of khat in Tanzania, sat at the feet of a voodoo princess in the inky darkness of a Louisiana bayou and even hunted for genies at the Majilis al Djinn in Oman, just to name a few. Along the way, he'd picked up all sorts of interesting items and knowledge as well as enough gadgets, trekking gear, toiletries and clothing to supply a small Third World nation for at least a year. God only knew what was in some of the luggage he hadn't even bothered to break open on this trip. Maybe he would be able to find something useful among them._

_Taking another deep breath, he pushed himself away from the door. "Ok, Cam," he said to the empty room. "If you want to end this, it's time to work a bit of magic."_

_

* * *

  
_

**Atrox**

**Chapter 16: Don't Stop Believin'**

As Sam's fever had increased, his periods of wakeful combativeness had become less frequent and shorter in length. Dean would have been glad for it...if it hadn't meant that his baby brother was growing more and more ill. Still, he had to admit his sense of relief when Sam's latest episode, just when Cameron had run out, had failed to materialize much beyond some loud mumblings, intermittent moans and a brief period of troubled tossing and turning.

Sam had quieted some time ago and the room had become incredibly still. An inattentive and untrained civilian could have heard a pin dropping so a hunter like Dean easily registered the faint "schnick' of the bedroom door latch long before the door, itself, yawned tentatively open. It hadn't swung far before Cameron's sculpted body slipped silently through the slender opening, quickly turning his back to the hunters and pushing the door back shut. Not wanting to risk disturbing Sam's apparently placid slumber, Gilchrist made certain to soundlessly rest the heavy wooden door into it's frame before releasing the knob and allowing the door's bolt to shoot quietly home once again.

When the athlete turned again, he caught Dean eyeing him and quickly looked away. He raised his eyes again as he took a step away from the door and realized that Dean's gaze was still honed in on him, an unreadable mix of emotions playing behind the blazing hazel eyes. As he tread silently across the room toward Jessup's desk, Cameron threw the hawk-eyed hunter an uncomfortable smile that he was certain looked more like an embarrassed grimace.

"Surprised to see _him _back," Dean whispered bitterly to Bobby once the muscle-bound jock had passed out of earshot. "I suppose he ran out of Perrier and caviar in his own room."

Jessup looked up, a hint of surprise showing on his deeply lined face, as Cameron crossed the room and neared the desk. The silver-haired centenarian had seen more than one person, including a few who had been medically trained, that had lost their composure, and sometimes even their lunch, and bolted when things had gotten too intense. The fact that Cameron had come back showed that the boy had a lot more chutzpah, and maybe even compassion, than his shallow, arrogant exterior personality would have had him believing.

The muscled blonde picked up a stray test tube from Jessup's desk and wordlessly began rolling it in his lanky fingers. From the look on the young man's face as he absently watched the tube tilting this way and that, Jessup was pretty certain there was something on Cameron's mind.

"There, uh...something I can do for you, son?" Jessup tried to keep his question neutral. It had taken a lot of guts for Cameron to come back and face them all after running out, especially Dean, and the elderly man didn't want to scare him off by appearing judgmental. He smiled warmly as Cameron looked sheepishly up at him, his fingers still fidgeting nervously with the test tube.

"I, uh-..." Cameron looked back down at the tube in his hands before turning his head and looking in Sam's direction. Bobby and Dean were focused solely on Sam and, from his vantage point, Cameron could see the tight lines of stress that adorned both of their faces. "How's Sam doing?"

"Holdin' his own, I suppose." Jessup flicked his age-spotted left arm over and peered at the display on his watch, comparing the current time with the time they'd all administered the Tylenol suppositories. Looking back up, he could see a deepening expression of concern settle over Cameron's handsome features as the young man scrutinized Sam's haphazardly sprawled form on the bed. "Got a ways yet 'til we know what the Tylenol'll do for him."

Cameron nodded silently and went back to watching the flipping of the test tube as it traveled, end-over-end, along the fingers of one hand. "You, uh...you...think he's gonna be OK?"

Jessup peered up at Cameron through the thick lenses of his glasses, his eyes searching the boy's face. There was something desperate in the boy's eyes, something that begged Jessup to tell him that the worst was over and, as much as the physician wanted to tell him that, he just couldn't bring himself to lie to him.

"Honestly?" The doctor's saddened eyes and defeated tone held an uncertainty that drove a shiver up Gilchrist's spine. "I don't know, Cameron. I might be able to have a little more confidence if I actually knew what it was that I was dealing with."

"If-..." Cameron stopped, looking over at Sam once again and running a hand exasperatedly through his blonde locks. "You said-...well, maybe. Looking at Sam's blood. That would help?"

"I explained this before, remember," Jessup inquired gently. "I'd need a microscope and that's something that I just don't have."

"But, I mean, if you did," Cameron injected quickly. "If you had a microscope, it would help?"

"Well, yeah...I guess." Dr. Jessup's eyes narrowed. "Cameron, are you trying to tell me that you have one? That you have a microscope somewhere?"

Cameron glanced to see if Dean was watching and was relieved to find that his attention was still completely focused on his ailing brother. A quick look in the direction of the innkeepers found them talking softly in the corner, Dennis still doing his best to comfort his wife. Turning his attention back to the country doctor, the athlete leaned in closer and spoke in hushed tones to prevent the others from overhearing.

"Yes. I mean, no." Cameron quickly pulled another chair close into the desk and sat down. "Not exactly. I went through my stuff before – when I left – and I'm pretty sure...or at least I think I can..." Thoughts, emotions and ideas were cascading through the muscular blonde's head so fast that he could hardly keep them straight or express what he was thinking.

"Think you can do what?" The doctor's voice was growing a bit more intense because the fractured, start-and-stop conversation wasn't making much sense and it was beginning to wear on Jessup's already overtaxed nerves.

Cameron hunched towards him and made a 'keep it down' motion with his hand. "I...I don't want Dean to hear-...don't wanna raise his hopes...in case...in case it doesn't work."

"In case _what _doesn't work? Cam, if you haven't noticed, I'm old...and I'm also very tired. I've got enough puzzles to solve with what's going on with Sam. I really don't need more brain teasers from you, too."

Gilchrist leaned in even closer and whispered to the physician. "I want to try making you a microscope."

Jessup was just a smidge more than a century old but he knew his hearing was still excellent. Even still, the physician was certain he'd heard the young man wrong. "You want to do _what_?"

"Shhh!" The blonde looked around again to see if the doctor's exclamation had attracted any notice from the others. Satisfied that it had not, he turned back once again to his conversation with the doctor.

"A microscope," Gilchrist explained, as though his idea was as normal a concept as the sun rising in the East and setting in the West. "I-...I looked through my stuff and I think I can do it. I've got a bunch of disposable cameras, a few pairs of binoculars, a portable CD player, a USB webcam, a portable DVD player and I'm sure that Debra or one of the other female guests has got to have a compact with a mirror in it."

Cameron's explanation had come in a torrent of rushed words and Jessup was having trouble wrapping his head around the boy's proposal.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. Slow down a little." Jessup's hands came up in a stopping motion and an incredulous look passed over his face. "You're going to build a microscope with some crappy, toss-away cameras, a few pairs of binoculars, a make-up case, a couple media players and some computer gadget?"

"Not _with _them so much as _from _them." Cameron stared intently at the aging doctor and could tell the man sincerely thought he'd finally gone around the bend. "Look, I know it sounds crazy. But if I cannibalize the lenses from the cameras, CD player and webcam and the prisms from one set of the binoculars, I _know _I can find enough parts to make this work."

The young man looked over his shoulder again at Sam. The youngest Winchester whimpered in pain as Dean and Bobby helped to reposition his awkwardly angled body on the bed. "It's _got _to work."

**ooo000ooo**

Dr. Jessup really wasn't certain just what it was that he was expecting out of Cameron's tinkering but one look at the abomination in front of him and he knew _this _wasn't it. The damned thing looked more like some avant garde art project gone horribly wrong than a precision piece of laboratory equipment.

Cameron shifted excitedly from foot to foot. It was important to him that his creation work as he'd planned. In his mind, he had something to prove and, regardless of his previous confrontation with the brothers, he just couldn't sit idly by and watch a man die and not try _something_. "I-...I know it looks, uh...unusual."

Jessup nodded his head in agreement. "You could say that." He wasn't going to burst Cameron's bubble by saying anything further, but if the contraption in front of him was capable of magnifying _anything, _let alone something as small as blood cells, he'd be surprised.

"And I know it's kind of...primitive..."

"You could say that, too," Jessup agreed amicably.

The doctor leaned back, cocked his head to the side and adjusted his trifocals to gain a better look at Cameron's "microscope". A set of expensive, brand name binoculars was perched atop a rectangular metal box. That pairing was, in turn, balanced over a long, black plastic cylinder. The odd looking combination of binoculars, box and tube was held upright by a framework of weathered, gray wood whose condition made Jessup not even want to guess as to where Cameron might have found it.

Below the lower end of the tube was a platform made from more of the pilfered wood and, in its center, a small hole had been drilled through it. An inch or so to the right of the hole, there was a metal clip that had been fastened in place with a tiny, gold-toned screw. The country doctor deduced that its function had to be to hold a glass specimen slide in place. Underneath that platform, and attached to a small U-shaped, swiveling metal frame, was one-half of a ladies cosmetic compact, the faux tortoiseshell plastic backing still affixed to the rear of the mirror.

"What the hell is _that _thing?" Dean strode across the room to where Jessup was still eyeballing Cameron's creation. Within seconds, Dennis, Debra and Bobby had made their way over and joined the other men around the physician's desk. "Looks like something you picked up at a Rube Goldberg garage sale."

A flush of crimson traveled across Cameron's cheeks. He was feeling flustered that Jessup hadn't had an opportunity to assure his contrivance would actually do its intended job before Dean and the others took notice of it.

"It's a, um...," Cameron stammered. "Well...you see..."

Jessup could feel the tension building in Cameron. When the young man had told him of his idea to construct a microscope, he'd been adamant about not letting the others in on it, especially Dean, until it had been proven that the device would work. The elderly medic knew he needed to do something to defuse the situation before Cameron decided to hightail it again. After all this time, Jessup certainly knew his way around a microscope, but not one that had been constructed like this. Without this microscope's inventor to troubleshoot its use, the instrument would be almost utterly useless.

"Whadda you say you tell me how this thing works, huh, Cam?"

"Sure!" Instantaneously, the physician's interested questioning turned Cameron's attitude from a rattled awkwardness to a composed eagerness.

Starting at the bottom of the makeshift apparatus, the young blonde noted its features, pointing out each area with his finger as he went. "This here..." He looked up at Debra and smiled warmly, knowing that she would finally understand why he'd wanted her compact...and also why he'd said that he wouldn't be able to return it. "This here is the makeup-mirror portion of Debra's compact. It can be turned in two different directions – up and down or side to side – in order to catch light and illuminate the specimen from the bottom. This, here, is the specimen platform and the metal clip secures the slide in place for viewing."

Cameron looked up again, this time at Dr. Jessup, making certain that the elderly man was following what he was explaining.

"Ok," Jessup assured, hoping to keep the young man focused on his invention instead of worrying over what the others were thinking. "Go on."

"It took me a while to figure out the best combinations for the highest magnification possible, but I swiped the lenses from my webcam, two disposable cameras that I found buried in my luggage and also from my portable CD and DVD players and mounted them inside this plastic tube."

Cameron stopped for a moment and thought back to the process of assembling the various misfit parts. "I thought I'd go nuts until I could find the correct distances apart to mount each lens. For a bit there, every thing I did...each change I made...caused nothing but a blurry mess and I was beginning to think my idea was gonna go down in flames."

"You've obviously worked hard on this." Jessup made sure to praise the extreme athlete for his efforts even though he was still doubtful that the instrument would be sophisticated enough for the work that he needed it to do.

The blonde nodded his agreement and then continued his review of the microscope's structure. "I drilled holes in the bottom and top of this metal box." Cameron's index finger rested lightly on a corner of the rectangular metal box with the binoculars perched on top. "The two holes in the bottom are closer together than the two on top to accommodate the narrower viewing area through the tube. The holes on top correspond to the width of these binoculars I used as eyepieces." The blonde moved his finger to indicate the field glasses.

"Inside the box, I arranged the prisms from my other set of Leica binoculars so that the single view from the lenses in the plastic tube can be split through the prisms and be seen in the double eyepieces of this top set of binoculars."

Jessup shook his head approvingly. "Impressive." Still, he was seeing one flaw in its construction. Since the various cells that make up blood are of differing sizes, he'd have to be able to adjust the scope's viewing range. "Is there any way to adjust the focus?"

"This screw right here." Cameron pointed out a large screw twisted through one of the wooden arms holding the long tube upright. "If you loosen it, the whole mechanism can be moved up and down to fine tune the focus. Oh! I almost forgot to tell you...I assembled the mirror in such a way that we can quickly and easily pop it in and out. That way you can do either a brightfield examination with the mirror below the specimen..." Gilchrist released the mirror from its bracket and held it a few inches to the one side of the specimen platform. "...or a darkfield exam with the mirror in a lateral position, like this."

"Wait a minute," Dennis breathed, a hint of shocked disbelief swirling in his tone. "You _built _a microscope...from _scratch_? With parts you pulled from cameras and CD players and stuff?"

Cameron looked at his invention as it rested on the top of Dr. Jessup's desk. He peered back up at the group, his facial expression slightly embarrassed, and shrugged. "Uh, I guess so...yeah."

"How'd you know..." Bobby's words slid to a stop. He had so many questions that he wanted to ask and he just wasn't sure where to start.

Cameron chuckled sardonically. "You guys forget that dear old Dad owns a geothermal company. He's pestered me since I was old enough to walk to look at geological specimens under a microscope in the company lab. I hated it and tried to get out of it every chance I could, but Dad insisted...or rather, _ordered _that I do it. Something about knowing the family business from the ground up...literally." He shrugged again. "Guess I paid better attention than I thought I did."

"Why would you do that?" Dean questioned quietly. "Destroy all of your expensive stuff to build this, I mean. After last night at dinner, I thought it was pretty clear that you hated our guts."

"I do," Cameron blurted out. "Well, I _did. _But I've watched you with Sam this whole time and -...You won't really understand this, your family being so close and all, but Gilchrist EnviroIndustries is my Dad's single-minded, all-consuming obsession. If it's not about the geothermal business and making money, he's not interested...at all - me included. And Mom?" A rye huff pulsed from the blonde's lips. "Doesn't even deserve the title, really. Only time she paid me any mind was when she wanted to flaunt me and my brothers in front of party guests...impress them with what a _wonderful _mother she was." The young man rolled his eyes and hooked air quotes into the air at the word 'wonderful'. "I can't ever remember her hugging me...unless she had an audience, of course. No bedtime stories, no homemade cookies, no school plays or sporting events. We were the nanny's problem. Would have been better being the nanny's kid for as much of a mother as my Mom was. Don't get me wrong, the nanny did the best she could and there'll always be a place in my heart for her but, she wasn't my mother, you know?"

Cameron took a deep breath and sighed. Suddenly, the arrogance Dean had seen flashing in Cameron's eyes and stance the day before was gone. In its place was a palpable sadness and a slump-shouldered, defeated posture.

"And my brothers? Oh, we're _real _close," Cameron cooed sarcastically. "The only interaction Jack and Steven have with me...or even each other...is to try outmaneuvering the others for a bigger share of inheritance and larger stake in the company."

The young athlete turned and looked at Sam's form lying on the bed across the room. Still somewhat stunned by Cameron's heartfelt admissions, the others stood in shocked silence. When he turned back to them again, his eyes held a hint of admiration.

"You and Sam, though. You might not have the money, the sports cars, the designer clothes and all of the other material things that I do, but you've got something that's worth so much more. You've got each other. You've got someone who actually gives a damn about you; someone who loves you. I honestly think, if it came to it, you'd willingly die for each other."

"He's my brother," Dean said quietly, thoughts of his deal with the crossroads demon and its impending deadline swirling in the back of his mind. "I'd do anything for him – even die for him."

Cameron shook his head as though he knew that would be Dean's answer. "Yeah, well, not every brother is like that. Trust me." The blonde gestured in Sam's direction. "If this had been me...My brothers wouldn't have been here caring for me, worrying over me, reassuring me like you are with Sam. No, they'd be in the boardroom arguing over how they were going to divvy up my portion of the company between themselves and gleefully celebrating the expansion of their Swiss back accounts."

Gilchrist swallowed hard but decided that he should soldier on. If he had opened up and admitted that much, he figured he might as well admit to everything. "I've been trying to fill that void my whole life - running from one big adventure to another; never giving myself time to think about what I didn't have, telling myself a close family wasn't anything special and I didn't really need it, anyway. Being here, watching you guys? Yeah, well, I guess I found out how just how special family can be."

Gilchrist looked up at Dean, a resigned sadness glinting in the athlete's eyes. "I'm not ever going to have that kind of relationship with Jack or Steven. Nothing's gonna change that for me and I realized that a long time ago." He gave a small shrug of his shoulder as though the notion didn't hurt as much as it really did. "So, if sacrificing some of my gear by tearing it apart might help save what you and Sam have, well..."

Cameron's voice faded away and he looked at his hands rather embarrassedly. A shaft of guilt sliced through Dean for misjudging the guy and for making snide remarks to Bobby when Cameron had slunk back into Sam's room. Despite the differences in their social stations, they had a lot more in common than Dean would have guessed. He knew what it was like to go through life with a demanding, obsessed father for whom your best was rarely good enough. He also understood what it was like not having a mother figure from whom to seek solace when he needed it. But, unlike Cameron, he _had_ had someone - he'd had Sammy.

"I-...I don't...I'm not sure...what to say," Dean admitted quietly.

"Well, I do," Jessup interrupted heartily as he slapped a huge hand on Cameron's back. Tending to Sam had been a difficult experience for the young athlete but, in the end, it had provided a hard, yet needed, life lesson. By finally looking beyond his own interests, the self-absorbed _boy_ had finally found within himself an honorable _man_ whom he could respect. "I'm proud of you, m'boy. Real proud."

**ooo000ooo**

"Well?"

The word was huffed out in a mixture of annoyed impatience and trepidation. Dean rubbed his sweaty palms off on the legs of his jeans as he watched the centenarian physician peer through Cameron's microscope, pull back and readjust the contrivance and lean in for yet another look.

A series of other adjustments followed and Dean thought the anticipation would kill him. Maybe, just maybe, they'd finally have an answer as to what was going on with his little brother and some real direction as to how to make him better.

Then again...maybe they weren't going to get any answers. Jessup had made a _lot _of adjustments and still hadn't made any proclamations as to a diagnosis. Maybe Cameron's microscope, as ingeniously built as it was, just wasn't powerful enough to give the doctor the information that he needed. Or, worse yet, maybe the information that he was getting wasn't anything that either of them really wanted or were truly prepared to have to face.

Dr. Jessup leaned back from the slide he'd been examining and, capturing his lower lip between his teeth, he looked silently at the expectant faces surrounding him. Just as he appeared ready to speak, he suddenly hunched back over the primitively assembled microscope and peered once more at the smear of Sam's blood that coated the glass plate secured in the contraption's specimen clip.

Satisfied that he'd seen enough, Jessup pushed back, resting his aching back against the slats of the wooden desk chair. He removed his heavy horn-rimmed glasses from the bridge of his nose with one hand while the knobby fingers of the other scrubbed harshly across his dry, gritty eyes.

"Did it work? I mean, could you see the cells?" Cameron was both excited at the prospect that his contraption was successful and yet fearful that it quite possibly could also be the instrument that gave them the answers that they dreaded most. "Is Sam gonna be ok?"

"Hard to believe from the look of it, but yeah, it worked just fine, Cameron. I was able to get a pretty darn good look at things...and, as I expected I would see, Sam's white blood cell count is significantly high." Before anyone could interrupt, Jessup held his hand up to stop them. "There is, however, something I _wasn't_ expecting."

Bobby had found Jessup's cryptic declaration to be a bit unsettling and the soft tenor of his question drifted up from within the small bevy of onlookers surrounding the physician's work station.

"Like what?"

"It's complex, but basically, there are a bunch of different cell types that make up human blood."

Bobby felt his heart leap into his throat. Maybe it was his imagination but it seemed as though Jessup had made a point of specifically saying _human _blood. Ever since the young hunter had developed his visions and the Yellow-eyed Demon had shown Sam in Cold Oak that he'd dripped his evil-tainted demon-blood into baby-Sam's mouth, Bobby had been fearful that an unusually alert medic would find some inexplicable anomaly within the youngest Winchester. It seemed, now, as though his fears were being realized and he wasn't sure what it would mean for the future safety of the two boys that he thought of as his own.

"High or low levels of each type of cell can indicate different things and I'm seeing some elevations in Sam's cell types that you wouldn't normally see with infection. Not that it's impossible, mind you," the medic was quick to clarify, "just not...common."

"S-so...are you...? Are you saying that, despite everything...despite all of the symptoms, that Sam _doesn't _have an infection?"

"Oh, I've no doubt that wound's infected, Debra. It's red, it's swollen..."

"That's right!" Dean broke in angrily. "It's red and swollen and he's got the fever from Hell! I know my brother's septic and if you were any kind of a doctor you'd know it, too!" The eldest Winchester's breaths were coming in the short, sharp rasps of stressed exasperation.

"I don't think sepsis is the issue, here," Jessup countered gently. "His blood smear leads me to believe that Sam's having some sort of acute inflammatory response...but to what, I'm not certain."

"I don't care what you _believe_! People _believe _in the Easter Bunny, but that doesn't make it real!" Dean's face reddened markedly and tendrils of veins bulged wildly at his temples as his angry words were propelled outward on small sprites of spittle. "Hell, I _believed_ that some senile, old coot with a medical degree issued in the Dark Ages could help my brother! And you can see where that's gotten him!"

Dean spun in the direction of his baby brother's bed, his arm extended its full length and his finger pointing accusingly at Sam's reclining form. A peculiar stirring swept the younger boy's flushed body, eliciting a singularly curious garroted keening.

"Sammy?!"

* * *

**To be continued...**

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* * *

  
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A/N: The chapter title is borrowed from a track off the 1981 album, '_Escape'_, the eighth and biggest selling studio album for the San Francisco-based rock band, Journey_._ Released during the band's most commercially successful period, the album went to #1 on the charts in that same year and included three top-ten hits, one of which was "Don't Stop Believin'".

I thought it was a good title choice where this chapter saw both Dean and Dr. Jessup's beliefs about Cameron shattered and Cameron believing in _himself, _as well as Dean's continued troubles believing that Jessup's advanced age does not diminish his abilities as a caregiver. Oh, and yes, you really can build a microscope from the various items that I described, but achieving adequate magnification to see the individual components in blood would be quite challenging...not impossible...but challenging, nonetheless.


	18. Icarus

**Disclaimer: **Nothing gained...except personal satisfaction.

**A/N: **There are no explanations about work schedules, real life events, family obligations or the (literally) 7 times that I've had to rewrite this chapter due to stolen laptops, crashed hard drives or botched Internet connections that can adequately explain the unfathomably enormous delay in getting you, my faithful readers, your next story update. Therefore, I will leave it with a simple, yet humble apology and an assurance that I did not, have not and will not abandon this fanfic. Good or bad, I'm sticking this out until the end, no matter how little time I have to write, how many times I lose my file(s) or how long it takes to finish. So, basically, like it or not, you're stuck with me and this story!

**From the previous chapter:**

_"S-so...are you...? Are you saying that, despite everything...despite all of the symptoms, that Sam doesn't have an infection?"_

_"Oh, I've no doubt that wound's infected, Debra. It's red, it's swollen..."_

_"That's right!" Dean broke in angrily. "It's red and swollen and he's got the fever from Hell! I know my brother's septic and if you were any kind of a doctor you'd know it, too!" The eldest Winchester's breaths were coming in the short, sharp rasps of stressed exasperation._

_"I don't think sepsis is the issue, here," Jessup countered gently. "His blood smear leads me to believe that Sam's having some sort of acute inflammatory response...but to what, I'm not certain."_

_"I don't care what you **believe**! People **believe **in the Easter Bunny, but that doesn't make it real!" Dean's face reddened markedly and tendrils of veins bulged wildly at his temples as his angry words were propelled outward on small sprites of spittle. "Hell, I **believed** that some senile, old coot with a medical degree issued in the Dark Ages could help my brother! And you can see where that's gotten him!"_

_Dean spun in the direction of his baby brother's bed, his arm extended its full length and his finger pointing accusingly at Sam's reclining form. A peculiar stirring swept the younger boy's flushed body, eliciting a singularly curious garroted keening._

_"Sammy?"_

* * *

**Atrox**

**Chapter 17: Icarus**

"Sam!"

In the few seconds that it took Dean to charge across the room to his brother's side, it seemed as though every muscle in Sam's body had tightened to the point where they were in danger of snapping loose from their anchor points. A strangled, guttural scream tore from the hunter's throat as the muscles in his chest and abdomen clenched so tautly that Sam's shoulders were pulled slightly off the bed and the harshly tightened cords in his neck caused his head to be craned awkwardly towards the right.

It's not like Dean hadn't heard the tortured screams of victims as the demonic black smoke had poured from the mouths of the possessed. And there had even been that time that Sam's tormented howl had resounded throughout Bobby's dusty, old house as Meg had exited his body. She had gotten the drop on the younger hunter and been riding him for a whole week before Dean and Bobby had finally managed to break the binding link and exorcise her. But even that terrible bellow paled in comparison to the rough, agonized screech his baby brother was making now.

"Sam!

Despite Dean's urgent shout, there was no response from the youngest Winchester as all of his muscles hitched into compressed knots. His arms drew upward, crossing over each other in front of his body at the same time that large bulges of bunched muscles stood out starkly along the tops of Sam's thighs, seemingly in direct contradiction to the board-flat extension of his legs. Even more odd to Dean, though, was the way Sam's feet flexed dramatically downward, his toes forcefully pointed in a fashion better befitting a petite ballerina dancing in toe-shoes than the hulking frame of his 6' 4" kid brother.

Dean grabbed his brother's flushed face between his hands and felt the insanely overheated skin searing his palms.

"Sammy! Sammy!"

The younger boy's eyes were thrown wide open but the pupils were so large that they nearly obliterated the familiar moss-green color of Sam's irises. Dean searched the dark pools that stared back at him but was unable to find any awareness behind them. As he cradled his little brother's face, the boy's lanky frame seemed to strain even harder and Dean could see Sam's knuckles whiten as his left hand fisted harshly before flexing backward at the wrist. The weakened fingers of his right hand were extended stiffly but the thumb twisted sharply across the palm. Simultaneously, Sam's feet pressed unbelievably flatter before turning noticeably inward, the sole of the left foot brushing along the top of the right one as they, too, lifted slightly from the surface of the bed.

"He's seizing!" Jessup yelled as he lumbered across the room to the bedside, his stiff, arthritic knees making him the last to arrive there.

"He's _what_?" Dean had always been under the impression that a seizure involved violent jerking. That's what he had seen on TV and in the movies, anyway. But, Sam? His muscles were just unrelentingly braced.

"It's the tonic phase of a seizure! Don't try fightin' 'im, Dean! He can't stop this and neither can you! Just keep 'im from fallin' off the bed!" The doctor swept a quick finger in the direction of the nightstand that stood next to the head of Sam's bed. In addition to a small, glass hurricane lamp, it's top was still strewn with supplies they'd been using to care for the ill man. "Somebody move that table! And that pedestal fan, too," he added almost as an afterthought, referring to the fan that they had placed along one side of the bed to help reduce Sam's fever. "He knocks into either one of 'em and he's gonna hurt 'imself!"

Bobby suddenly appeared at Jessup's side, gripping a leather belt that he was still in the process of shucking from the loops of his own pants. "Here!" he cried as he shoved the leather band forward towards the aging doctor. "We can stick this in his mouth so he doesn't bite his tongue!"

"No!" The physician put a firm, restraining hand on Bobby's arm at the exact same time that he hollered at him. "Muscle contractions during a seizure are incredibly strong! He could bite right through that and choke on the pieces!"

The scruffy junk man felt suddenly stricken that his actions had almost endangered the youngest Winchester even more, but he hadn't known that it was such a dangerous thing to do.

Jessup could see the guilt leeching into Bobby's facial expression and tried to take the heat off the well-meaning man. "Too late, anyway," he stated with a nod of his head in Sam's direction. The young hunter's teeth were already clamped shut like a vice, the muscles of his face rippling crazily as the fearsome muscle contractions fiercely ground his jaws together. Thin strings of blood-tinged drool and froth oozed from the right side of Sam's mouth and dripped in a slimy saunter down his face.

Dennis peered intently at his afflicted guest. He'd never witnessed a seizure and really didn't know what to expect, but he didn't think what he was seeing...or rather what he _wasn't _seeing...was good. "I-...I...don't think-...I haven't seen him take a breath, guys!"

"We need to do something!" Cameron yelled as he looked nervously back and forth between Sam and Dr. Jessup. "He's not...he's not breathing! We can't just stand here! What about-...Shouldn't we start rescue breathing?"

"Doc?" Bobby looked expectantly at the silver-haired medic. All he needed from the physician was affirmation that it was the right thing to do and Bobby would be all over it in a second.

"It's not gonna do any good," Jessup tried to explain quickly in order to defuse the group's rapidly escalating fears. "You'll never be able to work against those muscle spasms. Even if I had an Ambu bag and oxygen, his chest muscles are clamped down way too tight to get him adequately ventilated! If he doesn't start breathing again on his own once the seizure ends, _then _we do mouth-to-mouth!"

Debra quickly grabbed a wad of facial tissues from the box that had gotten knocked to the floor when the nightstand had been carelessly shoved from it's position too near the seizing hunter. It wasn't much, but if they were going to have to do mouth-to-mouth, the portly innkeeper was going to do what she could to give them the best seal and, therefore, the best chance at giving good breaths.

She bent in and hurriedly dabbed the trail of slobber from Sam's face but frowned when it was quickly replaced by yet another. She was just leaning down to clean away the newest batch when Sam's tensely braced muscles began to jitter lightly. Before she was exactly certain that she was seeing it, the faint tremors had transformed from something nearly imperceptible into powerful, lurching spasms that rattled the young man's entire body.

Sam's arms and legs jolted harshly; a wild, uncontrolled frenzy of sharp limb movements and quickly snapping joints. Each paroxysm was accompanied by a harsh, rasping grunt as the spasms forcefully expelled what little air remained in Sam's lungs. The passing seconds saw the youngest hunter's face turning a deep shade of crimson that Dean couldn't seem to take his eyes off of until his attention was grabbed by Debra's panicked shout.

"Oh, my God! The IV!"

The rest of the group turned as a whole to find that each surge of muscle contractions was sending Sam's left foot smashing violently across the other one. The fierce energy of each powerful thrust threatened to dislodge Sam's jury-rigged IV from its tenuously placed insertion site on the top of his right foot.

Dean would never have believed that a man of his advanced age could move so fast but, in the blink of an eye, Jessup had launched himself towards the foot of Sam's bed, his right hand closing tightly over the IV where it entered the skin of the hunter's foot. A half second later, the silver-haired physician was on his knees, both hands clamped around the youngest Winchester's right foot. Instead of trying to restrain the limb, Jessup kept his own muscles soft. In an effort to protect the fragile intravenous line, he allowed his arms to move in time with Sam's spastic tremors.

It was obvious that Jessup was doing his best to gamely ride out Sam's powerful motions, but Bobby could see that the geriatric was taking quite a beating from Sam's other foot. The jerking and twitching limb flailed repeatedly, often striking the elderly doctor's arms and chest. The gruff-mannered salvage man made a move towards Jessup after a particularly vicious kick buffeted the medic's jaw, partially knocking him from his kneeling position.

"I'm ok! I'm ok!" the centenarian cried out as he quickly regained his balance and resumed his hold on Sam's quavering ankle. "The headboard! His head's gonna hit the headboard!"

At the physician's shout, Bobby turned back and grabbed the bed's dislodged pillow. He tried to stuff it hurriedly between the headboard and Sam's thrashing form but, before he could get it shoved into place, Sam's head had forcefully connected several times with the hard, solid oak bed panel.

"How long is this gonna last?" Bobby shouted as he struggled to keep Sam's violent movements from once again dislodging the pillow he was using to protect the boy's head.

Jessup craned his neck so that he could view the face of his watch without having to relinquish the protective hold he had on Sam's IV. "This violent jerking is the clonic phase of the seizure! He goes any longer than three minutes and we're in real trouble!"

"Three minutes! What the hell is causing this?" Dean figured it was probably one of the more ridiculous questions he'd ever asked. Considering that his brother's skin felt hotter than the sand on a sun-baked beach Dean figured that it was probably one of the more ridiculous questions he'd ever asked. Afterall, it was a pretty easy and safe assumption that Sam's fever was behind the manifestation of the seizure. Still, with the way that everything with Sam had been going contrary to what Jessup expected, there was always the chance that the question was actually quite a bit more valid than it appeared on the surface.

"I don't know for sure!" Jessup bit out as another of Sam's violent spasms threatened to jerk him off balance again. "Could be his fever, could be the IV's not runnin' fast enough to correct a critically low sodium level!"

"Well-...well-...," Cameron stammered, a look of sheer panic on his face. "You need to _do _something!"

"It's not like there's anythin' I can do 'til he's done seizin'! I let go'a this IV and we'll lose it for sure...if we haven't already!"

As if to drive the doctor's point home, a strong tremor smashed the heel of Sam's left foot into the top of Jessup's hand so forcefully that the grip the doctor was using to safeguard the IV was broken. Before the physician could regain his hold, several more convulsions had already jarred the foot haphazardly back and forth across the IV site.

As quickly as he could, Jessup wrapped his time-gnarled hands back around the limb but it concerned him that he thought he could feel a hint of dampness under his palm. He really didn't have time to think about it, though, as four or five more incredibly powerful spasms wracked the young hunter's body before Jessup felt a discernible reduction in the tension that had flooded Sam's muscles. Several more weak muscle contractions rippled through Sam's frame and then he stilled.

"Sam? Sammy?" Dean ran his hand across his brother's forehead, pushing back dampened tendrils of chocolate-colored hair that had flopped into Sam's face during the most violent part of the seizure. During the height of the spasms, Dean had thought that the way his baby brother's body jerked uncontrollably was the worst thing he could ever see. Now that the convulsions had ended, though, the unnatural stillness that had settled over the younger hunter seemed decidedly worse. Even in sleep, Sam was never still – especially not _this _still. The hunter was _so_ still that Dean's hand automatically settled on Sam's chest, subconsciously feeling for the rise and fall that he knew should be there.

An eternity seemed to pass as Dean stood, his own breath held in concentration and his heart hammering against his ribs, before he felt a faint, shallow expansion of his brother's ribcage. _He's breathing. _When his brother's next breath proved to be a little deeper, Dean could feel the tension start to seep from his own body and a sense of relief washed over him as the following breath was even deeper still. _Thank God, he's breathing._

"Ok, gang," Jessup intoned quietly as he carefully maintained his hold on the foot into which he'd inserted Sam's IV. "Let's get him rolled onto his side. He might vomit after all that and we don't need him aspirating it."

Initially, Dean thought that it was the group's efforts in rolling and positioning Sam's limp form that had caused the change in Sam's breathing pattern. After all, when he had been conscious, even the tiniest movement had seemed to cause so much pain that the usually stoic hunter had whimpered and panted pitifully until he was allowed to still again. This was different, though. Sam's breathing didn't quiet once he was settled.

Instead, Sam's respirations continued to increase in depth, intensity and frequency until the sound of his breathing resembled the huffing noises of an antique steam engine. Equally unnerving was the way that every round of unnaturally labored breaths caused Sam's lax cheeks to suck dramatically inward during inspiration before puffing strangely outward with each expiration. Strings of bloody spittle slithered from Sam's mouth, dancing and twisting in the vortex of his forceful breaths, before silently forming a pool of slimy, pink dampness on the delicate floral sheet beneath him.

"What-...? Is he-...?" Dean's eyes were wide and, although focused on Sam, they would bounce briefly and questioningly towards Jessup before rapidly returning to the sight of his brother's distressed breathing. "Why is-...?"

"He's ok, Dean," Jessup quickly assured. "Altered breathing patterns often occur during the post-ictal period."

"Post-ictal?" Bobby had picked up a lot of useful medical information over the years, as did most in their 'profession'. Heck, if you planned on surviving longer than your first hunt, learning to be your own doctor was just part of the job description. And Bobby had learned early on that a smart hunter never stopped learning. You just never knew when the most inane bit of knowledge was going to save your ass...or someone else's.

"Simply put, it's the brain's recovery time after the seizure. Think of your nephew's brain almost like a car with a bad timin' belt," the physician explained patiently in terms he figured that Bobby and Dean would understand. "Brain's runnin', but the timin' belt's all wrong. As long as the belt's slippin', he'll have trouble firin' all eight cylinders and can't idle smooth, if ya get what I mean." Bobby shook his head in understanding and the elderly doctor went on. "Seen people do all sorts'a wild things while their brain function is Swiss-cheesed in the post-ictal period – cry, scream, bite, punch, talk nonsense, have coordination problems, even partial paralysis...you name it. Once the brain rests, it'll get back to firin' all cylinders, systems will reboot all proper-like and it'll start purrin' like a kitten again."

"Gotcha." Although Jessup's explanation made sense and he believed the elderly physician when he said that Sam would be ok, Bobby also knew that he wouldn't stop being creeped out until Sam quit breathing as though each breath might be his last.

The sterling-haired physician nodded tightly and glanced at the boy's older brother. He wasn't necessarily convinced that Dean suddenly trusted his skills or his judgment. After all, the young man hadn't exactly been his number one fan up to this point...and hadn't worried all that much about hiding that fact, either. Still, Dean wasn't his priority right now and he wasn't going to waste another moment worrying over his popularity status with the rather surly young man. He had more important matters to attend to, especially since he was now certain that he could feel a trail of wetness caressing his fingers where they curled their way around Sam's Achilles' tendon. He prayed that the moisture was from nothing more than his own sweating palms but, in his heart, he knew that wasn't likely to be the case.

Jessup lifted only a small portion of his right hand from its protective position over the IV and tried to assess the insertion site the best that he could. He knew there was a possibility that Sam could unexpectedly seize again and he just wasn't willing to further increase the risk of losing their only intravenous access by completely releasing his hold on the tenuously placed medical device.

Dennis could see the concentration on his friend's face as he contorted himself this way and that. From what he could tell, Jessup was struggling to catch a glimpse of the spot where the jury-rigged set-up penetrated the skin on the top of Sam's foot. "How's it looking, Gene?"

"Hey, Bobby," Jessup called out, intentionally avoiding the innkeeper's question. The group was already on edge enough as it was, he wasn't about to let them know just yet that he suspected there was a problem – especially until he could figure out just _how much _of a problem they faced. Why go adding to everyone's anxiety until he knew what he was dealing with? "Do me a favor, will ya? While we've got 'im over on his side like this and he's not fightin' us, we need to get a rectal temp to see what his fever's doin'."

"Sure thing, Doc."

"It's ok, Sam," Debra cooed softly from her position at the stricken young man's head. Her fingers ghosted tenderly along the angle of Sam's jaw before lightly raking through his hair, neatly rearranging the sweat-dampened strands that the seizure's violent movements had strewn haphazardly. "You're gonna be ok, Sam. We're gonna take care of you. You'll be feeling better in no time. You will, I promise."

Jessup paused another minute as he surveyed the scene before him and then turned his attention back to Sam's IV. Now relatively certain that another seizure wouldn't immediately be following on the heels of the first one, Jessup relinquished his ironclad hold over the IV site and got down to the business of assessing its condition.

As he moved his hand away, it was obvious that the site had taken a beating in the frenzy. The two by three inch patch of clear tape that he'd placed directly over the insertion site to secure the IV should have been like a second skin – smooth, dry, well-anchored and nearly invisible. But, while a small section of the transparent tape remained affixed and smooth, as it should have been, the larger portion of it was puckered and scrunched into a crumpled, ineffective wad.

Upon closer inspection, Jessup could see that the IV had only been slightly dislodged from its place, but even that small disruption had been enough that the soft, pliant nature of the short pediatric catheter had caused it to kink crazily. Worse yet, a small, soft lump had begun to form under Sam's skin and the physician could see a thin trickle of fluid oozing from around the bent device.

Grasping the mangled tape, Jessup pulled at the tiny portion that had tenaciously managed to remain anchored to the skin along the top of Sam's foot and tugged it loose. The silver-haired doctor took a gentle hold of the IV, slowly retracting it until the crinkled catheter had straightened once again. Using traction from his other thumb and index finger, Jessup stretched the skin taut before carefully trying to thread the flimsy device back up the vein to where it belonged.

As he tried to advance the newly-straightened IV cannula, the thin, teflon-coated plastic tube immediately began to fold over onto itself in the exact location where Sam's spastic movements had previously kinked it. Jessup ceased his delicate pushing motion, pulling back slightly and re-straightening the catheter, before repeating his attempt to slip the IV into its proper position.

Several additional efforts at righting the catheter using the same method passed with equally unsuccessful results. Deciding he should try something else, Jessup softly turned the IV between his fingers. He hoped the rolling motion of the damaged catheter would work it in past the kinked area, but sighed dejectedly as the device immediately crumpled over on itself like an accordion. It was obvious that no matter how much he wanted it or how much he tried, he was not going to be successful in returning the IV to it's proper position.

As far as the country doctor could see it, he only had two options. Option one, in no uncertain terms, sucked. He could pull the damaged device and find a new insertion site with a fresh cannula - a prospect that his experience starting the first IV had taught him would be easier said than done. After all, they'd had a hard enough time getting the slender pediatric one in so Jessup had no reason to think a new IV would be any easier. Complicating matters was the fact that the only IV needles that the physician had left were large bore, adult-sized catheters that would make accessing a new site in Sam's dehydrated veins extraordinarily difficult, if not downright impossible altogether. If he couldn't get another one in, or used the last of his supplies trying, then they were well and truly screwed.

Their only other choice was just about as bad. Jessup could straighten the beleaguered children's catheter in its current location, secure it the best that he could, and resume the flow. Without a drip chamber, though, it would be hard to know if the abused IV was even running. If a critically low sodium level _was_ the root of Sam's seizure, he'd be wasting a LOT of valuable time sitting around waiting to see if the fluid level in the bag was dropping - a lot of time in which the boy could seize again.

The time-worn physician took a deep breath and blew it out again. So far, nothing about this case had been easy. Neither option was great but, the more he thought about it, gambling that the IV could be salvaged seemed much more inviting and wise than pulling the only one they had. After all, it was better to have crappy IV access than no IV access at all.

It was a long shot, but it was one he was willing to take so Jessup reached to his right and opened the clamp that allowed the IV to flow once again. Snagging a nearby roll of medical tape, he tore off a four inch length. As he turned back to secure the mistreated catheter in place, it was immediately obvious that the soft swelling under Sam's skin had grown larger and fluid had begun leaking from the insertion site again. With a wry huff and a shake of his head, Jessup knew that the decision had been made _for _him – the IV would have to go.

The doctor rolled the worm gear shut to stem the flow of fluids and, pressing a small folded gauze over top of the insertion site, gave a quick flick of his wrist. Seconds later, the crazily crimped plastic cannula was carefully set aside and Jessup had secured the gauze to the top of Sam's foot with the length of tape.

Looking up, the healer was caught by Debra's watery gaze. "I'm sorry. I tried. I really did, but I just couldn't save it," he explained apologetically, giving the portly matron a weak smile. Jessup had intended for the facial expression to be a form of tender reassurance, some shred of comfort that Debra could hang onto; could gain strength from. In the end, the elderly man was fairly certain that it had actually appeared less as an inspirational gesture and more as a plea for personal absolution.

Praying that he would somehow find strong veins where none had been before, Jessup gathered up the tourniquet and quickly fastened it around the calf of Sam's left lower leg. As he drew his hand back, something caught his eye. There, on the plantar margins of Sam's foot, where the softer skin on the side of the foot blended into the tougher skin of the sole, Jessup thought that he saw an odd, wavy-appearing rash.

The doctor gently rotated Sam's left foot so that he could see the opposite side. He _hadn't_ been seeing things! The unusual rash was there, also. He popped the tourniquet loose and then quickly moved to inspect Sam's right foot. That foot, too, was lined with the same distinctively rope-y eruptions.

Jumping up, the centenarian grabbed Sam's left hand, turning it to and fro like some frenzied lunatic, as he scrutinized the skin between the young hunter's fingers and along the edge of his palm. Although it hadn't been there hours before when he'd done his initial exam of the young man, the evidence was there now. Just as on the borders of Sam's feet, there were lesions snaking all along the edges of Sam's hands, as well as ones that were coiled like tiny red serpents in the warm spaces between his fingers.

Jessup snatched the dampened sheet from over his patient's body, carelessly flicking it downward where it settled in a rumpled heap at Sam's waist. It wasn't quite as red or well-defined, but there was no denying that the same peculiar rash was now covering the boy's abdomen and chest.

Dean's eyes widened. He remembered Sam squirming in the Impala, complaining of being itchy and even accusing Dean of lacing his clothing with itching powder. He also remembered giving his baby bro the compulsory big brother hazing by teasing Sam, in front of Bobby no less, about having fleas. But they'd already determined that it was simply a result of being sensitive to the aloe they'd been using, hadn't they? He'd been expecting Sam to break out in at least a _few _hives, but this-. _This_ just didn't look like any case of hives he'd ever seen...certainly not like the hives their Dad had gotten from the stuff.

"A rash?" Cameron's words snorted out on a light chuckle. When compared to everything else, the concern that Sam's newest symptom generated on the faces of the others seemed incredibly laughable. "What? It's not like it's any big deal." The athlete peered incredulously around at the serious faces around him. "I mean, come on, it's a _rash. _How significant can a _rash_ be?"

"I, uh...," Jessup struggled to express himself while mentally running through the myriad causes of rashes; desperately trying to ferret out a diagnosis that would connect all of the dots of Sam's incongruous symptoms. It wasn't necessarily the rash that was throwing him. It was the rash in combination with the _other _symptoms that just didn't seem to fit.

Despite his advancing years, and possibly _because _of them, Jessup had long prided himself on maintaining an intellect that was incredibly sharp. It had probably been a good sixty years – back in the earlier days of his career - but he could still recall caring for patients with the same characteristic skin reaction. Trouble was, as keen as it was, his mind failed to conjure memories of _any _of those patients being as critically ill as his current one. There was just no way that this could be the same thing...was there?

"I...I," Jessup stammered clumsily, "...don't really know for sure."

"Well, _I_ know somethin' for sure," Bobby proclaimed, holding up the digital thermometer where everyone could see it. "I ain't the type to just panic over nuthin', but I'm pretty damned sure that 107.2 ain't nuthin'."

"Goddammit," Jessup swore loudly, "That's more than a degree and a half higher than it was before we gave 'im the Tylenol!" He scrubbed his hand over his eyes, pinching at the bridge of his nose as frustration played across his features in the way that his jaw clenched tightly. "Guess we know where that seizure came from now," he ground out sardonically.

Things were urgent before, but they were downright dire now. His patient was severely dehydrated and had just seized, their only IV access was gone and the boy's already-high fever was skyrocketing to unbelievable levels. Worse yet, the diagnosis that Sam's rash seemed to be suggesting just didn't jive with his other symptoms. Nothing was making any sense. It was as though someone had mixed the pieces of several different jigsaw puzzles together then expected Jessup to make one, coherent picture from them. No matter which way he turned the pieces, though, he just couldn't seem to get them to all fit together.

Jessup shook his head and pushed the thoughts aside. At this point, a diagnosis was less important than the symptoms. It really wouldn't matter all that much if he knew _what _was causing the fever if he didn't do something to bring it down. Sam's brain was quite literally in danger of stewing to death in its own overheated juices and they needed to come up with a more successful cooling plan. If not, the next thing they'd be planning was the young man's funeral.

"Cameron," the doctor began urgently, "I need you to scour this house, the grounds, the barn, the cars, everywhere. I need a length of hollow, plastic tubing about that long." Jessup held his hands up about two feet apart. "It needs to be firm, but not too firm. I've still got to be able to bend it."

"W- well," the blonde stammered, his eyes wide at the sudden, anxious change in the physician's demeanor. "H-how will I know when I've found the right thing?"

"Just bring everything you can find that's the same diameter as a garden hose or smaller. Dennis," Jessup intoned, turning to the innkeeper, "I need you to go downstairs and find every container of chilled water you can find, throw it in a cooler of ice and bring it to me."

"Does it need to- ?"

"No, it doesn't need to be sterile," the physician interrupted in a rush, "so it won't need to be boiled first."

"Debra, I need you to put a couple of the boiled pots of salt water in the 'frig to cool. Make sure they stay covered and sterile." The innkeeper's wife turned to go but Jessup's voice stopped her. A large syringe would be great right about now and he was hoping the bed and breakfast's well-equipped gourmet kitchen held some treasures. "Any chance that husband of yours has a meat injector?"

"I-...it broke...at the base...where the needle attaches...a few weeks ago. He's been meaning to get a new one at that shop in Worland," Debra admitted, her voice holding a hint of guilt that they didn't have what the doctor needed, "but we just couldn't see making the 260 mile round-trip for one item. Why?"

"A big syringe would'a come in real handy, that's all."

"Wait a minute," Debra crowed, her features suddenly lightening as an idea dawned on her. "It's not a syringe per se, but would a turkey baster work? I think Dennis has an old one down there, tucked away in the back of a cupboard or drawer, somewhere. Haven't seen it in a while, but I'm almost certain it's still around."

"You find it," Jessup encouraged, " and I'll make it work."

"Come on, Dean," Debra called out as she headed for the door. She'd seen the lost look on the man's face and figured the scavenger hunt might help to take his mind off things a bit. "The search'll go faster with two of us."

Dean made a move towards the door but Jessup's hand captured his shoulder and stopped him. "No, I need you and Bobby here with me. Sam seizes again and I'll be needin' all hands on deck to keep 'im from hurtin' 'imself."

**ooo000ooo**

It wasn't the awkwardly slumped position of his body or even the restraining pressure across the aching muscles of his chest that had brought him to a jolting awareness so much as the low, rumbling growl just behind his right ear. Whatever it was, it was close enough that he could feel the warmth of breath against his skin and, in Sam's experience, awakening confined and to the strains of menacing snarling had never been good.

His body tensed instinctively and his heart hammered in his chest as his mind whirled in a foggy and fruitless attempt to work out just what beast they'd been hunting. Although the beast's identity eluded him, he was pretty damned sure he'd come out on the losing side, at least so far, because every cell in his body seemed to be screaming with pain and he had no idea how he'd gotten here. Hell, he didn't even know where here _was. _

He'd always been a brain guy - the go-to guy for research, the analytically-minded Winchester who had been far more comfortable stalking a good reference book than some bad-ass monster. Right now, though, the brain refused to come out to play and he had to work hard to push down the rising sense of panic that threatened to overwhelm him.

Sam stilled his emotions and tried to allow his instincts to give him the information that his brain would not. He could sense that there was someone, some _thing, _moving softly not too far in front of him. He strained to focus but his surroundings remained a dim and fuzzy kaleidoscope. He blinked several times to try to clear his vision but the indistinct shapes and smeared colors refused to coalesce into anything that his aching head could even begin to comprehend.

The more he tried to make sense of it all, the more his head pounded and the more exhaustion threatened to pull him under. If Dean were here, he'd be telling him to stop. Telling him to conserve his energy. Telling him to hang on. _Dean._

Where was Dean? Was he here? Dean was always there for him. But what if he'd been hurt? What if Dean was hurt and Sam was his only hope? He had to know if Dean was ok? He tried to stir, tried to move away from the unknown entity that threatened him, but his body felt leaden and searing pain washed over him from everywhere. Using the last of his energy, Sam's throat convulsed, calling out his brother's name.

Another long, rolling growl roared in his right ear and he blinked in surprise as a blurred figure suddenly lurched in close in front of him. His body instinctively pushed backwards at the unexpectedly abrupt invasion of his space and the thing roared menacingly in his face. He blinked again and, although his vision improved marginally, he realized that he still couldn't identify what kind of monster or demon that he was dealing with. In fact, he was pretty damned sure he'd never seen a monster or a demon like it and, if he ever got out of here, he figured he'd have to do some research on it. There was only had a split second to consider the thought before a white hot agony exploded in his nasal cavity as the creature's needle-like appendage probed its way inside.

From that moment, all conscious thought was gone as his mind retreated and his body's impulse for self-preservation took over. Desperate to escape the torment of his unknown adversary, Sam tapped into energy reserves he didn't know he had and arched back forcibly, slinging his head from side to side. With each attempt to break free of the creature's probing, the angry roars of the creature grew louder in his ear and the bonds that held him tightened. Incongruously powerful tentacles wrapped themselves ever tighter, first around his chest and then around his head, holding him still as the probe drove deeper and deeper.

A searing pain flashed through Sam's head as he struggled even harder but his efforts did nothing to stop the invasion of his body. Just as he thought the creature's horn-like spike would penetrate straight into his brain, the shaft scraped viciously on his tissues as it made a sudden downward turn. Tears sprung to his eyes and he gagged repeatedly as it chafed along the back of his throat. In an effort to free himself from the painful sensation, he wriggled and pushed with everything he had until he could finally get his head thrown back.

The relief he felt from his new position lasted only an instant before he started coughing violently. Air rushed out with each paroxysm but seemingly refused to find its way back in. Sam felt the room begin to spin as the burning in his lungs increased and he could feel his will to fight start to wane. As though his body had been waiting for the slightest of cracks in his resolve to grant their permission, his oxygen-starved muscles shut down and his body fell limp. As he willingly surrendered himself, he could feel a strong pressure pushing at the back of his head and hoped that he would be sucked into the painless depths of the encroaching darkness before the creature could snap his neck.

**ooo000ooo**

"It's ok, Sammy. I've got ya," Dean murmured softly into Sam's ear, his large arm curling reassuringly across his baby brother's chest in an effort to give the afflicted boy a sense of comfort and safety. With Bobby's help he had gently eased his brother's upper body off the bed and slipped in behind him. Sam's back rested heavily against Dean's muscular chest as the older boy supported his torso in a sitting position – or at least as close an approximation as Sam's flaccid form would allow. "You're gonna be ok. You'll see. 'Cause, you know, what kinda big brother would I be if I couldn't make things better, right?"

The hunter felt his brother's body stiffen against him and he leaned in slightly trying to get a look at the boy's face from over his shoulder. Seeing Sammy's eyes open again after that god awful seizure was paramount in Dean's mind. Not until he saw for himself that Sammy was awake would he believe for even one second that the excruciating violence of that seizure hadn't somehow permanently damaged his baby brother.

"Come on, Sam," Dean mumbled quietly. "You know me. I like to see things for myself. Open your eyes and prove to me that your college-boy braincells can still get their 'geek' on. Hell, prove it to the doc over here."

"Dean," Jessup began in a gently admonishing tone. As he sat in front of the cradled siblings, his hand moved up to rest reassuringly on Dean's knee. "We've talked about this. There's just no other choice at this point."

"I-...I know. But...**.**" Dean felt Sam's head roll slightly against his chest and peered down at him. His eyes had opened to slits, pain and confusion etching themselves into the lines furrowed on the boy's brow. "Look. He's waking up a little. Can't we just give him a little?"

"With a fever like that, we don't _have _time, Dean...and you know it." Bobby's gaze was stern as he looked at the older Winchester. Dean needed him to be strong and if that meant he'd have to channel John Winchester, the hard-hearted bastard that he could be, than so be it.

"Well, maybe that seizure..." Dean stammered hurriedly, "...maybe it was because his fever's breaking. And...and if we just wait...then his temperature will just come down on its own."

"Look, I know you don't want to do this. I understand. I don't think _any _of us want to do this," Jessup commiserated, "but he seized precisely because his temp is spiking dangerously _high_, Dean, not because it's going down."

Dean knew Jessup was right. They'd already been over it before. And, sure, like preventing Sam's brain from frying like an egg wasn't just about the best reason anybody could come up with. But, holy hell, you just shouldn't have to do something like this to your baby brother. You shouldn't have to restrain your brother while someone hurts him, even if it _is _in the name of helping him. Dean sighed in resignation. He understood that there was no other option, but that still didn't mean that he had to like it.

"Fine," he spat out. The sooner they started, the sooner they were done torturing his kid brother. "Can we just get this over with, then?"

A pained groan slipped from Sam'slips as he shifted once again in Dean's arms. To the others, Dean was certain the moan was just an incomprehensible sound, but he could have sworn he heard his own name buried deep within the slurred noise. "I'm sorry, Sammy," he crooned closely into Sam's right ear. "...I'm so sorry."

"Alright, let's get on with this," Jessup intoned as he slid in closer to the huddled pair. In his grizzled hands he held a length of small, plastic tubing.

As Jessup moved in closely, Sam's upper body jerked backwards and his now-fully opened eyes blinked repeatedly in what appeared to be unabashed surprise. With the recent seizure and a fever as high as Sam's, Jessup doubted that the boy would comprehend any of his words, but he still felt an obligation to try to explain to him what was taking place. "It's alright. Everything's gonna be ooookay. I'm just gonna hold this tubing up next to you for an approximate measure. I'm not gonna hurt you, Sam."

Dean and Bobby watched silently as the geriatric physician held the end of the tubing in his right hand and coiled out the length until it reached the area next to Sam's right ear. Shifting his right hand to the area of tubing next to the hunter's ear, Jessup slid out more length with his left hand until it was long enough to reach to the center of Sam's stomach.

"Ok, everybody ready?" Jessup's clear blue eyes bounced quickly from face to face, registering the looks of apprehension, but also the tiny nods of agreement. "You sure you can handle this, Dean? I could have Dennis or Cam..."

"Just do it," Dean growled. No one should ever have to put their baby brother through this but, by God, there was no way he was going to step out of the way, no matter how much he hated this, and let someone else, some virtual stranger, take his place caring for his sick little brother.

Jessup nodded silently before using a heavy pair of scissors to slice off what his measurements had determined was an extra, unneeded length of tubing. As he jammed the point of the turkey baster onto the cut end he couldn't help but think that he should write a book once this whole mess was over. After all, how many healthcare providers cared for patients using an athletic hydration bag for an IV, a mish-mash of electronics parts for a microscope and a gasoline siphoning line as a stand-in for a nasogastric tube.

"I'm pretty sure I don't hafta tell ya," Jessup admitted, "but he ain't gonna like this all that much."

The elderly medic had found a nearly empty tube of lubricating jelly at the bottom of his pack and, after milking out the barely adequate squirt that was left, dipped the opposite end of the siphon tubing into the gel. Moving in even closer to Sam, Jessup positioned the end of the tubing just below Sam's right nostril. "Ok, Sam. This is going to be very uncomfortable. I need you to hold as still as you can and swallow, swallow, swallow."

Jessup slid in even closer to the pair but frowned when he saw what he could have sworn was a hint of fear on his patient's face. Whether Sam really understood what was going to happen, or not, they were just going to have to go for it before the kid became any more upset than was necessary.

Jessup began advancing the slender, lubricated tubing inside Sam's right nostril as gently but as quickly as he could. It had barely passed halfway up the nasal passage when the youngest Winchester reared back, his body slamming harshly against his older sibling in his effort to escape the painful intrusion.

"Hold 'im, Dean!" The physician had been expecting such a reaction and had even warned the others of it. Even still, they couldn't prevent the tubing from slipping from its position inside Sam's nose. What had started in Sam's lungs as a small, gurgling moan had now blossomed into a full-on tortured scream like Dean had never heard before and it cut through him like a knife.

"Please, Sammy, please," he begged. "Just hold still and let him do this. I know it doesn't seem like it, but we're trying to help."

Dean looked up at Jessup through moist eyes and sharply nodded a "go ahead". The silver-haired medic re-inserted the device, his hand quickly feeding the tube in despite the way Sam jerked his head from side to side while arching back against his brother's strong chest.

Dean tightened his hold around his little brother. Sam had lost a lot of his bulk and muscle while being hospitalized but Dean still marveled at just how much power his sibling still possessed. Normally, Dean would be proud of Sam's ability to protect himself, especially when he wasn't one-hundred percent. But the same power that would usually have Dean crowing like a proud Pappa now made him nervous as he realized just how dangerous Sam's strength really was.

Jessup had cautioned that under the best of conditions there was a risk of perforating the delicate tissues of Sam's throat as they passed the NG tube down into the stomach. They weren't even _close _to being under the best of conditions and everyone here knew it. If they caused a tear in Sam's esophagus and they remained trapped here without proper medical intervention, well, things wouldn't look good for Sam. Having his little brother flailing around like he was doing was only going to increase that risk exponentially and it scared the hell out of Dean. Not sure what else to do, but desperate to keep him from harming himself, Dean kept one arm wrapped tightly around his brother's torso while moving the other to grasp him securely in a headlock.

"That's it, Dean!" Jessup's hand continued to work the tube in but he could feel resistance in its movement as Sam continued to struggle against them. "Keep his head still! He keeps writhing like that and we'll perf 'im for sure!"

Sam's screams grew louder as he bucked even harder against the restraining grip surrounding him. Although Dean knew that what he was doing was actually meant to help his kid brother, it sure didn't feel that way listening to Sam's pitiful keening and he found that he had to tune it all out and disconnect from what was going on in order to keep his sanity. He was jerked back to full awareness, though, when Sam's cries were suddenly cut off by the harsh, involuntary gagging that Jessup had said would signal the tube's passage down the back of the ill hunter's throat.

The gagging grew in intensity and tears sprung to Sam's eyes. Dean clung as tightly to his struggling brother as he could but the tears that rolled in crazily erratic streams down Sam's fever-chapped checks was making his grip increasingly slick. Dean was in the process of readjusting his hold when Sam jerked back, slipping from Dean's compromised grasp and tossing his head back as far as he could possibly get it in an attempt to free himself from the painful procedure.

Seconds later, Sam's coordinated struggles ended as his body involuntarily jerked in time with the sudden onset of deep, rough coughing. An irregular series of labored, raspy breaths was interspersed amongst the harsh, painful sounding hacking. Sam's hands shot upwards and grappled at his throat. His face turned from fever-flushed to beet red in seconds and his mouth gaped, fish-like, in its hunger for air.

"Get his chin down, Dean! The tube's headed into his lungs 'cause he's got his chin up!" Jessup was yelling and desperately withdrawing the tube at the same time. The physician had recognized that Sam was choking by the way in which he was frantically grabbing at his throat. If Jessup continued feeding the tube inward it would enter the main bronchus of the lung, severely impeding the young man's breathing and putting him at increased risk for pulmonary complications. At this point, that was the _last _thing they needed.

Dean placed one of his large hands behind Sam's head and pushed forward. In complete contrast to the powerful struggle his brother had just put up, Sam's body went suddenly limp, his head lolling forward with the pressure from Dean's hand and his eyes falling shut. A sudden wash of heat rolled over the older Winchester's body and his stomach seemed to drop out from underneath him as the adrenalin rush of sheer panic hit him. His brother had been fighting and gasping and very much alive. Then, in a blink of an eye, he'd gone completely limp and motionless.

"Sam?"

Before Dean could even breath his brother's name, Jessup already had the earpieces of his stethoscope in his ears, the bell resting against the young hunter's chest and he was listening intently. " 'S ok, Dean. He's breathing. Just passed out, is all." The silver-haired medic continued to hold the makeshift NG tube in place with one hand while methodically moving the bell of the stethoscope along Sam's chest and ribcage. "Not hearin' any gurgles in his lungs. That's good. 'Kay, Bobby," Jessup asserted as he quickly repositioned the stethoscope bell to the squishy area just below Sam's breastbone. "You're up."

Jessup continued to steady the nasogastric tube where it entered Sam's nostril as Bobby picked up the turkey baster that was jammed onto the opposite end of the tube. After getting a go-ahead nod from the country doctor, Bobby's large hand squashed every last ounce of air that he could press from the bulb of the baster. A satisfied smile crossed Jessup's face and he nodded sharply before removing the stethoscope from his ears.

"Just like a baby fartin' in a bathtub," Jessup quipped of the characteristic sound made by a syringe full of air gurgling in the stomach. "I'd say we're in the right spot but I'm not all that keen on makin' matters worse, so how 'bout we double check? Let go of that bulb, Bobby; see if we get back any gastric contents."

"He hasn't eaten anything since last night," Cameron interjected. "Is he even going to _have _anything in his stomach to get back?"

"Not much. Little stomach acid, mostly." Jessup's trained eyes watched the clear plastic tubing as Bobby released the pressure and the collapsed bulb re-expanded. "There! Some clear fluid with tiny flecks in it. We're in. Gimme that tape and let's get this puppy secured in place."

**ooo000ooo**

"You're sure we're in his stomach?" Dean couldn't help but feel uncertain and anxious. After all, Jessup's warnings had been pretty darn clear. Right place – they pour chilled saline solution down the tube and into Sam's stomach to cool his core and reduce his fever. Wrong place – Sam drowns as the liquid gets poured straight into his lungs. Definitely one of those times that Dean could see that a triple check could be considered a "charm".

"We've confirmed it twice," Jessup stated matter-of-factly, "but I suppose it don't hurt to check a third time."

Jessup went to grab for the baster bulb when Dean stopped him. "Isn't there another way? You know, just so we know for sure...know that the other tests were right." Jessup paused for a second and looked into the elder sibling's pleading eyes. "Please?"

The doctor nodded. "Sure, kid." Time was of the essence in getting Sam's critically high temperature down and re-establishing an IV, but one more check wasn't going to take _that _long. "Hand me that cup of water."

Dean grabbed the liquid-filled vessel from the small stand to his left and passed it to Jessup. The old-timer wiggled the turkey baster free of the NG tubing and set it aside. "I'm gonna stick the end of this tube into the water," he explained quickly. "If we're in a lung, you'll see water get pulled into the tube as Sam inhales and air bubblin' back out as he exhales."

Jessup dunked the tubing's end into the fluid and waited through several cycles of Sam's repirations. "Everyone agree? No bubbles and no fluctuation of the water level?" Receiving unanimous nods, the centenarian pulled the tubing from the water, tapping off the remaining drops on the lip of the glass. "We're gonna need to work as a team. Dean, you keep hold of him from behind like you are in case he comes around. He fights us and manages to pull on the tubing while we're dumping water in and he could still get a lungful."

"We need to instill half a liter over a five minute period," Jessup continued as he popped the bulb off the end of the turkey baster. "Bobby, it's gonna be you're job to adjust how fast or slow the chilled saline flows in by raising or lowering the turkey baster syringe like this." The country doctor poured a small amount of fluid into the baster while holding it very low. The group watched as it trickled in slowly, but then gradually increased in speed as Jessup raised the syringe higher and higher.

"Cameron, you and Dennis are going to make sure that Bobby's got a continuous supply of saline. You'll want to reload the baster syringe before it completely empties to keep the amount of air going into Sam's stomach to a minimum. We get too much air in there, he's probably gonna vomit and we risk him aspirating into his lungs. Debra, I need you to keep watch of the time and the amount of fluid we're giving. No more than half a liter over five minutes. Then we wait five more minutes and siphon it all back out by reattaching the bulb. We'll do six cycles, then recheck his temp. Everyone clear?"

Jessup's eyes jumped from person to person, making certain that each member understood their specific job before getting started. "Ok, then, let's get started."

* * *

**To be continued...**

* * *

A/N: Before someone sends me a flaming review, yes, it is entirely possible to have, as well as survive, a fever of 107.2. In my career, I've directed care for many patients with critically high temps, but the two highest temperatures I've ever seen were 108.3 and 109. The first patient survived without any lasting effects. The second patient was eventually pulled from life support because the sustained, critically high temp had caused brain death.

My chapter title choice this time actually has a literary origin as well as my usual classic rock origins. First and foremost, of course, is the literary origin in the form of the Greek myth of Icarus. In this story, Icarus and his father, Daedalus, attempt to escape their exile on the island of Crete by using wings made of wax and feathers. Overcome by the joy & power of flight, Icarus ignores his father's warning and recklessly flies too close to the sun. The sun's extreme heat causes his wings to melt and Icarus crashes to his death in the sea. It didn't take much effort to make a comparison between Icarus' behavior and Sam's own recklessness in ignoring his health & the resulting extreme fever.

In the world of classic rock, the Greek myth brings to mind the 1983 song, "Flight of Icarus", by Iron Maiden and my personal favorite, the 1975 Kansas song, "Icarus (Borne on Wings of Steel), from their album _Masque. _As a note of interest, Kansas has recorded _**three **_songs with references to the mythological character - "Icarus (Borne on Wings of Steel – 1975), "Icarus II" (a track about a wartime pilot – 2000) and "Carry on Wayward Son" ("...I was soaring ever higher, but I flew too high..." - 1976).


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